MEMORIAL-DAY 


UC-NRLF 


ftGOM 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

Class 


Our  American 
MEMORIAL   DAY 


V 

Our    Bmcrican    1>oltDae0 


MEMORIAL    DAY 

(DECORATION    DAY) 

ITS   CELEBRATION,  SPIRIT,  AND  SIGNIFICANCE 

AS  RELATED  IN  PROSE  AND  VERSE,  WITH 

A  NON-SECTIONAL  ANTHOLOGY 

OF   THE   CIVIL   WAR 


EDITED    BY 


ROBERT    HAVEN    SCHAJFFLER 


From  out  our  crowded  calendar, 
One  day  we  pluck  to  give; 

It  is  the  day  the  Dying  pause 
To  honor  those  who  live. 

McLandburgh  Wilson 


NEW  YORK 
MOFFAT,  YARD  AND  COMPANY 

1911 


COPYRIGHT,  1911,  BY 

MOFFAT,  YARD   AND   COMPANY 

NEW  YORK 

Published,  March,  iqu 


THE  QUINN  A  BODEN  CO.  PRESS 
RAHWAT,  N.  J. 


PREFACE 

IN  harmony  with  the  generous  non-sectional  spirit 
characterizing  our  Memorial  Day  celebration,  no  dis 
crimination  has  been  shown  in  this  collection  between 
the  literature  of  South  and  North.  For  our  secular 
All  Souls'  Day  knows  neither  North  nor  South,  Blue 
nor  Gray. 

The  sole  discrimination  shown  has  been  in  selecting 
from  all  sources  the  most  beautiful  poetry  and  the  most 
eloquent  prose  in  this  first  attempt  to  reveal,  from  vari 
ous  viewpoints,  the  true  spirit  and  significance  of  the 
festival  and  of  the  events  leading  thereto. 

A  war  anthology  is  included. 


219206 


NOTE 

The  Editor  and  Publishers  wish  to  acknowledge 
their  indebtedness  to  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Com 
pany;  The  Century  Co.;  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co.; 
Bobbs-Merrill  Co.;  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.;  Mr.  David 
McKay,  John  Macy,  and  others  who  have  very 
kindly  granted  permission  to  reprint  selections  from 
works  bearing  their  copyright. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION xiii 

I 
CELEBRATION 

FOR  OUR  DEAD Clinton  Scollard  3 

AN  ODE  FOR  DECORATION  DAY  .     .     .  Henry  Peterson  4 
COVER  THEM  OVER  WITH  BEAUTIFUL  FLOWERS 

Anonymous  7 

MEMORIAL  DAY Anonymous  9 

THE  WHITE  BRIGADE John  Macy  10 

HONOR  OUR  PATRIOT  DEAD Anonymous  12 

FOR  DECORATION  DAY Rupert  Hughes  13 

LITTLE  NAN Anonymous  14 

A  MONUMENT  FOR  THE  SOLDIER  .  James  Whitcomb  Riley  16 

DECORATION  DAY Richard  Watson  Gilder  17 

MEMORIAL  DAY Louis  Imogen  Guiney  18 

II 
SPIRIT  AND  SIGNIFICANCE 

DECORATION  DAY  ADDRESS   ....  James  A.  Garfield  23 

MEMORIAL  DAY Wallace  Bruce  27 

MEMORIAL  DAY  MESSAGES 29 

ARE  DEAD  HEROES  PRESENT? Anonymous  30 

TRIBUTE  TO  THE  UNKNOWN 

Senior  Vice- Commander  Burr  age  31 

ODE  FOR  MEMORIAL  DAY  .     .     .  Paul  Laurence  D unbar  31 

THE  MONUMENT'S  MESSAGE  .     .  Charles  Elmer  Allison  33 
COMRADES  KNOWN  IN  MARCHES  MANY 

Charles  G.   Halpine  46 
vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  LEGACY  OF  CONFLICT  ....   Theodore  Roosevelt  47 

DECORATION  DAY E.  P.  Thwing  48 

ODE  FOR  DECORATION  DAY  ....   Theodore  P.  Cook  51 

THE  NATION'S  DEAD Henry  Watterson  53 

THE  GRAVES  OF  OUR  DEAD  .     .     .  Robert  G.  Ingersoll  55 
"  BELLIGERENT   NON-COMBATANTS  " 

William   Tecumseh  Sherman  56 

DECORATION  DAY Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  57 

DECORATION  DAY  ADDRESS Anonymous  60 

III 
THE  WAR 

BROTHER  JONATHAN'S  LAMENT  FOR  SISTER  CAROLINE 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  67 

DIXIE Albert  Pike  69 

FIRST  O  SONGS  FOR  A  PRELUDE  .     .     .   Walt  Whitman  71 

MEN  OF  THE  NORTH John  Neal  74 

THE  OATH  OF  FREEDOM  ....  James  Barron  Hope  76 

BEAT!  BEAT!  DRUMS! Walt  Whitman  78 

WAR Sam  Walter  Foss  79 

THE  BRAVE  AT  HOME  .     .     .  Thomas  Buchanan  Read  81 

THE  NINETEENTH  OF  APRIL,  1861   .     .     .  Lucy  Larcom  82 

MANASSAS Catherine  M.  W ar field  85 

THE  COUNTERSIGN A  Confederate  Soldier  86 

TRAMP,  TRAMP,  TRAMP George  F.  Root  88 

KEARNEY  AT  SEVEN  PINES  .  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  89 

THE  DEATH  OF  SLAVERY  .     .     .   William  Cullen  Bryant  91 

CAVALRY  CROSSING  A  FORD     ....     Walt  Whitman  94 

BIVOUAC  ON  A  MOUNTAIN  SIDE   .     .     .  Walt  Whitman  95 

FROM  "  THE  RIVER-FIGHT  "   .  Henry  Howard  Brownell  95 

IN  ACTION Anonymous  101 

FREDERIC KSBURG Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  103 

THE  LAST  FIGHT Lewis  Frank  Tooker  104 

VICKSBURG Paul   Hamilton   Hayne  108 

THREE  HUNDRED  THOUSAND  MORE   .     .     .  Anonymous  no 

IN  DAYS  LIKE  THESE Thomas  H.  Stacy  112 

THE  TROOP-SHIP  SAILS  .                .  Robert  W.  Chambers  113 


.      CONTENTS  ix 

FAGS 

THE  BATTLE  OF  CHARLESTON  HARBOR 

Paul  Hamilton   Hayne  115 

CANTICLE  DE  PROFUNDIS Lucy  Larcom  118 

"How  ARE  You,  SANITARY?"  .     .  Francis  Bret  Harte  121 

WHAT  THE  BULLET  SANG     .     .     .  Francis  Bret  Harte  122 

BATTLE-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC  .     .  Julia  Ward  Howe  123 

ALL  QUIET  ALONG  THE  POTOMAC  .     .  Ethel  Lynn  Beers  125 

ORDER  FOR  A  DAY  OF  FASTING 127 

KEENAN'S  CHARGE   ....  George  Parsons  Lathrop  128 

LEE  TO  THE  REAR John  R.  Thompson  131 

RE-ENLISTED Lucy  Larcom  135 

REVEILLE Michael    O'Connor  138 

FARRAGUT William    Tuckey    Meredith  140 

DRIVING  HOME  THE  Cows  .     .      .  Kate  Putnam  Osgood  142 

SHERIDAN'S  RIDE Thomas  Buchanan  Read  144 

"  HE'LL  SEE  IT  WHEN  HE  WAKES  "...  Frank  Lee  146 

SPRING  AT  THE  CAPITAL  .     .     .  Elisabeth  Akers  Allen  148 
ARMY  CORRESPONDENT'S  LAST  RIDE 

George  Alfred   Townsend  150 

LEE'S  FINAL  ADDRESS  TO  His  SOLDIERS 154 

THE  CONFLICT  ENDED Charles  Devens  155 

SECOND  REVIEW  OF  THE  GRAND  ARMY 

Francis  Bret  Harte  156 

MARCHING  THROUGH  GEORGIA H.  C.  Work  159 

THE  SOUTHERN  SOLDIER Henry  W.  Grady  160 

FROM  "THE  HARVARD  COMMEMORATION  ODE" 

James  Russell  Lowell  162 

IV 
THE  HEROIC  DEAD 

How   SLEEP  THE   BRAVE William   Collins  167 

Two  VETERANS Walt    Whitman  167 

OUR  DEAD  SOLDIERS Francis  A.  Walker  169 

THE  UNKNOWN  DEAD Henry   Timrod  172 

ONLY  A  SOLDIER'S  GRAVE S.  A.  Jones  173 

READING   THE   LIST Anonymous  174 

DECORATION  DAY  .     .     .  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  176 


x  CONTENTS ' 

PAGE 

OUR   COUNTRY'S   DEFENDERS    .     .     .   William  McKinley  177 

HYMN  FOR  MEMORIAL  DAY Henry  Timrod  178 

HEROES  OF  THE  SOUTH  ....  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  179 
FROM  "AN  ODE  IN  TIME  OF  HESITATION" 

William   Vaughn  Moody  182 

AN  ODE Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  184 

THE  BATTLEFIELD William  Cullen  Bryant  186 

UNDER  THE  STARS Wallace  Rice  188 

SHERMAN Richard   Watson    Gilder  190 

OUR  HONORED  DEAD Henry  Ward  Beecher  191 

ROLL-CALL Nathaniel    Graham    Shepherd  192 

A   SOLDIER   POET Rossiter  Johnson  193 

A  GEORGIA  VOLUNTEER  .     .     .  Mary  Ashley  Townsend  194 

THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD  ....   Theodore  O'Hara  197 

MEMORIALS Herman  Melville  201 

ELEGIAC James  Gates  Percival  201 

VANQUISHED Francis   Fisher   Browne  203 

THE  NATION'S  DEAD Anonymous  204 

A  BALLAD  OF  HEROES Austin  Dobson  206 

THE  DEAD  COMRADE  ....  Richard  Watson  Gilder  208 

THE  VOLUNTEER Frank  L.  Stanton  209 

THE  SMALLEST  OF  THE  DRUMS  .     .     .  James  Buckham  210 

THE  VOLUNTEER Elbridge  Jefferson  Cutler  212 

OUR  HEROES John  Albion  Andrew  213 

COME  UP  FROM  THE  FIELDS,  FATHER  .     .   Walt  Whitman  215 

THE  DEATH  OF  GRANT Ambrose  Bierce  217 

THE  BURIAL  OF  GRANT   .     .     .  Richard  Watson  Gilder  219 

THE  GRAVES  OF  THE  PATRIOTS  .     .  James  Gates  Percival  220 

O  CAPTAIN!   MY   CAPTAIN!    ....   Walt    Whitman  222 

V 
REUNITED 

THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY  .     .     .  Francis  Miles  Finch  227 

NORTH  TO  THE  SOUTH  ....  Richard  Watson  Gilder  229 

DEATH  THE  PEACEMAKER Ellen  H.  Flagg  229 

GETTYSBURG:  A  MECCA  FOR  THE  BLUE  AND  GRAY  .     .     .  232 

OVER  THEIR  GRAVES     .     .     .  Henry  Jerome  Stockard  233 


CONTENTS  xi 

PAGE 

THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY Anonymous  234 

A  PATRIOTIC  MESSAGE  FOR  MEMORIAL  DAY 

General  James  Longstreet  236 

REUNITED F.    L.    Stanton  237 

His  NEW  SUIT S.  E.  Kiscr  239 

ENLISTED Eliza  Calvert  Hall  240 

AGAIN  BRETHREN  AND  EQUALS  .  James  Willis  Patterson  241 

THE  EAGLE'S  SONG Richard  Mansfield  244 

THEM  YANKEE  BLANKITS W.  Small  245 

THE  WARSHIP  "  DIXIE  " Frank  L.  Stanton  247 

CHICKAMAUGA G.  T.  Ferris  249 

CHICKAMAUGA — 1898 250 

ALL  UNDER  THE  SAME  BANNER  Now 

Lawrence  Sullivan   Ross  251 

ONE  BENEATH  OLD  GLORY Anonymous  254 

AMERICA  SURVIVES  THE  ORDEAL  OF  CONFLICTING  SYSTEMS 

Henry  B.   Carrington  256 

THE  HIGH  TIDE  AT  GETTYSBURG  .   Will  Henry  Thompson  260 

THE  NEW  MEMORIAL  DAY  .     .     .  Albert  Bigelow  Paine  263 

MEMORIAL  DAY  1889  ....  Samuel  Ellsworth  Kiser  264 

LET  Us  REJOICE  TOGETHER  .  George  Augustus  Sheridan  265 

VI 
SELECTIONS 

THE  BRIGADE  COMMANDER  .     .     .     .  3.  W.  De  Forrest  271 
A  STORY  OF  DECORATION  DAY  FOR  THE  LITTLE  CHILDREN 

OF  TO-DAY Elisabeth  Harrison  309 

THE  FIRE  REKINDLED   ....  Claire   Wallace  Flynn  315 

MEMORIAL  DAY  1808  .                                    326 


INTRODUCTION 

DAYS  particularly  set  apart  for  ceremonies  in  honor 
of  the  dead  are  common  to  mankind  and  are  well-nigh 
as  old  as  history  itself. 

The  Greeks  performed  impressive  rites  called  Zoai, 
at  each  new  grave.  These  involved  various  libations 
and  offerings  of  olives  and  flowers.  The  head  of  the 
departed  was  crowned  with  a  floral  wreath,  and  a 
luxuriance  of  bloom  springing  from  the  grave  of  the 
dead  one  was  considered  a  token  of  his  happiness. 

The  Romans  honored  their  ancestors  in  a  festival 
called  the  Parentalia,  celebrated  from  February  I3th 
to  2 1  st.  During  this  period  the  temples  were  closed, 
and  the  magistrates  were  obliged  to  go  without  the 
insignia  of  their  office.  The  last  day  was  called  the 
Feralia.  Then  wine  and  milk,  honey  and  oil,  fruit, 
bread,  salt,  eggs,  and  the  blood  of  cattle,  pigs,  and 
black  sheep  were  brought  to  the  tombs  and  offered  up 
to  the  shades  of  the  departed.  The  tomb  was  deco 
rated  with  wreaths  and  flowers,  especially  roses  and 
violets,  as  the  later  Latin  poets  record. 

Our  ancestors,  the  Dihiids,  were  believers  in  the 
transmigration  of  souls  ai^d  celebrated  their  memorial 
day  about  the  first  of  November  on  the  eve  of  the  great 
autumnal  festival  of  thanksgiving  to  the  sun.  This  was 
the  time  when  their  god  Saman,  the  Lord  of  Death,  was 
supposed  to  call  together  and  pass  judgment  upon  poor 


Xlll 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

souls  who  had  been  obliged  for  their  sins  to  inhabit  the 
bodies  of  animals  during  the  year.  But,  through  the 
priests,  by  means  of  gifts  and  incantations,  the  cruel 
heart  of  Saman  might  be  softened  at  this  season. 
Even  in  China  and  Japan  there  exists  an  ancient  festi 
val  in  honor  of  the  dead,  known  as  The  Feast  of 
Lanterns. 

Our  Memorial  Day  is  simply  a  secular  All  Souls' 
Day.  Like  most  Christian  festivals  the  latter  is  only 
a  pagan  feast  in  a  new  form.  On  that  day  the  Roman 
Catholics  endeavor,  by  prayers  and  charity,  to  soften 
the  suffering  of  the  poor  souls  in  purgatory.  The 
early  Christians  wrote  the  names  of  the  dead  on  the 
diptychs  or  altar  lists  and  from  these  the  priest  read 
the  names  of  those  for  whom  he  was  to  pray  that 
God  might  give  them  "  a  place  of  refreshment,  light, 
and  peace." 

In  the  sixth  century  the  Benedictine  monasteries  used 
to  hold  a  memorial  service,  at  Whitsuntide,  for  their  de 
parted  brothers.  In  998  Abbot  Odilon  of  Cluny  insti 
tuted  in  all  the  monasteries  in  his  congregation  the 
practice  of  saying  the  Mass  for  the  dead  on  the  morrow 
of  the  Feast  of  All  Saints,  and  obliging  the  priests  to 
recite  in  private  the  matins  and  lauds  from  the  office 
of  the  dead. 

It  is  fascinating  to  study  the  customs  of  this  holiday 
in  different  ages  and  nations.  The  account  given  by 
Walsh1  is  well  worth  following: 

"  In  ancient  times  it  was  customary  for  criers,  dressed 
in  black,  to  parade  the  streets,  ringing  a  bell  of  mourn- 

1  In  "  Curiosities  of  Popular  Customs." 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

ful  sound  and  calling  on  all  good  Christians  to  remem 
ber  the  poor  souls  in  purgatory  and  join  in  prayer  for 
their  relief.  In  Southern  Italy,  notably  in  Salerno, 
there  was  another  ancient  custom,  which  was  put  an 
end  to  in  the  fifteenth  century  because  it  was  thought 
to  savor  of  paganism.  Every  family  used  to  spread  a 
table  abundantly  for  the  regalement  of  the  souls  of  its 
dead  members  on  their  way  from  purgatory.  All  then 
spent  the  day  in  church,  leaving  the  house  open,  and 
if  any  of  the  food  remained  on  the  table  when  they 
came  back  it  was  an  ill  omen.  Curiously  enough, 
large  numbers  of  thieves  used  to  resort  to  the  city  at 
this  time,  and  there  was  seldom  any  food  left  to 
presage  evil.  A  story  strangely  like  this  is  told  in 
the  Apocryphal  book  of  Bel  and  the  Dragon. 

"  All  Souls'  Day  possesses  a  peculiar  sanctity  for  all 
who  have  ever  felt  the  poetry  which  underlies  the 
services  of  the  Catholic  Church.  In  the  toil  and  moil 
of  life  we  too  easily  forget  the  dead,  or  remember  them 
only  with  a  sense  of  loss  instead  of  gratitude.  Hence 
it  seems  well  that  once  in  the  year  an  opportunity 
should  be  afforded  for  dwelling  on  them  in  a  different 
way,  for  recalling  all  that  endeared  them  to  us,  which 
often  means  all  that  has  lent  our  past  life  emotional 
value,  for  drawing  close  to  them  in  the  spiritual  bonds 
which  according  to  the  Catholic  Church  are  not  severed 
by  death,  and  for  offering  them  that  pious  meed  of 
prayer  which,  the  same  authority  guarantees,  will 
shorten  their  stay  in  purgatory  and  open  out  to  them 
the  sooner  the  final  glory  and  peace  of  paradise. 

"  In  nothing  does  the  strange  contrast  of  feeling  ap 
pear  more  strongly  than  in  the  different  ways  in  which 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

this  day  is  celebrated  in  countries  or  districts  which  are 
equally  Roman  Catholic  in  their  profession  of  faith. 
In  all,  the  religious  services  are  substantially  the  same ; 
Masses  for  the  dead  are  read,  the  *  Dies  Irse '  is  sung, 
and  the  prayer  '  Eternal  rest  grant  them,  O  Lord,  and 
let  perpetual  life  shine  upon  them '  rises  from  thou 
sands  of  hearts  as  well  as  lips.  But  outside  the  church 
nothing  can  be  more  unlike  than  the  bearing  of  the 
worshipers. 

"  In  France  the  Jour  des  Morts,  as  it  is  generally 
known,  is  a  decorous,  pathetic,  and  beautiful  occa 
sion  among  all  believers.  For  two  or  three  weeks 
before  the  day  arrives  the  shop  windows  and  the 
news-venders'  kiosks  are  laden  with  wreaths  and  gar 
lands  of  immortelles,  some  in  their  natural  color,  some 
dyed  blue,  pink,  or  purple.  On  All  Saints'  the  people 
stream  to  the  cemeteries.  Thousands  of  people,  thou 
sands  of  wreaths.  The  cemeteries  are  one  mass  of 
brilliant  color,  of  moving  throngs,  for  not  even  the  re 
motest  corner  of  the  potter's  field  is  neglected.  Above 
the  dust  of  the  pauper,  as  well  as  of  the  prince,  is 
left  some  token  of  remembrance.  Pains  are  taken  that 
no  graves  of  friends  and  relatives  are  neglected,  lest 
their  spirits  should  have  their  feelings  hurt  during  their 
visit  by  perceiving  this  neglect.  The  children,  espe 
cially,  are  encouraged  to  delight  in  the  thought  of  pleas 
ing  the  little  dead  brother,  sister,  or  friend  by  making 
the  tiny  mounds  that  mark  their  resting-places  gay  and 
bright-looking. 

"  The  higher  classes  behave  with  the  quietude  and 
self-restraint  of  well-bred  people  everywhere.  But 
down  among  the  common  people  are  manifested  the 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

emotions  of  the  heart,  sad  remembrance,  re-awakened 
grief,  love  outlasting  its  object. 

"  It  is  true  that  even  into  the  midst  of  this  pathetic 
ceremony  the  Parisians  sometimes  manage  to  obtrude 
politics.  On  November  2,  1868,  a  strange  scene  was 
enacted  in  the  cemetery  of  Montmartre.  The  Empire 
was  then  at  the  height  of  its  unpopularity.  A  large 
number  of  its  enemies  came  bearing  flowers  to  seek 
for  the  tomb  of  Alphonse  Baudin,  the  representative 
of  the  people  who  had  died  at  the  barricades  on  De 
cember  2,  1851.  For  seventeen  years  this  had  been 
reported  lost.  But  thousands  of  eager  searchers  soon 
located  it,  and  it  was  covered  with  a  pyramid  of  im 
mortelles  and  other  flowers.  Revolutionary  speeches 
were  made,  and  there  were  some  conflicts  with  the 
police.  Next  morning  some  of  the  liberal  journals 
opened  a  subscription-list  for  a  monument  to  Baudin. 
But  the  movement  was  stopped  by  the  Imperial  Govern 
ment,  and  several  of  the  editors  were  fined. 

"  Scenes  of  this  sort,  however,  are  infrequent,  and 
occur  only  among  unbelievers.  Now  contrast  the 
Frenchman  with  the  Southern  Italian. 

"  Nothing  can  be  more  grewsome,  incongruous,  and 
flippant — to  the  Northern  mind — than  the  All  Souls' 
celebrations  in  Naples.  The  Saturday  Review  of 
January  7,  1888,  gives  an  account  of  these  which  is  as 
true  to-day  as  it  was  then: 

'  In  Naples  All  Souls'  Day  is  regarded  as  a  holiday, 
and  the  visit  of  the  families  to  the  churchyard  for  the 
purpose  of  decorating  the  graves  degenerates  into  a 
pleasure-party.  Metal  garlands  are  chiefly  used  for 
the  purpose ;  and,  though  they  are  more  durable,  they 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

hardly  possess  the  charm  of  real  leaves  and  flowers. 
They  may,  however,  be  regarded  as  symbolic  of  the 
behavior,  if  not  always  of  the  feelings,  of  those  who 
offer  them.  On  the  way  to  the  cemetery  a  decent 
sobriety  is  observed,  and  the  various  families  usually 
remain  separate;  but  on  the  return  general  sociability 
and  mirth  are  the  rule.  The  roadside  is  lined  with 
inns,  which  are  better  filled  on  this  than  any  other 
day  in  the  year,  and  from  all  of  them  the  sound  of 
singing  and  dancing  may  be  heard.  Indeed,  it  is  by 
no  means  uncommon  for  a  young  Neapolitan  to  say  to 
a  friend,  "  We  are  going  to  visit  our  mother's  grave 
to-morrow,  and  on  our  way  back  we  shall  stop  at  such 
or  such  an  inn;  "  which  means,  "  If  you  like  to  come 
there,  you  can  dance  with  my  sister."  To  an  English 
man  no  celebration  of  the  day  seems  a  better  thing. 
If  we  forget  our  dead,  we  do  not  make  their  memory 
the  excuse  for  a  jollification. 

'  In  the  villages  where  the  day  is  observed  with  a 
certain  seriousness,  grotesque  incidents  are  apt  to  mar, 
for  the  stranger  at  least,  the  sense  of  mournful  calm 
which  the  religious  services  excite.  In  one  of  the 
churches  of  Ravello,  for  example,  a  disgusting  effigy  is 
placed  before  the  high  altar,  instead  of  the  shrouded 
structure  in  which,  during  the  funeral  service,  the  coffin 
is  placed.  The  very  skill  with  which  it  is  made  renders 
it  the  more  repulsive.  The  fallen  cheeks  and  livid  hue 
are  rendered  with  what  seems,  in  the  half-light,  a 
frightful  realism;  and  it  is  clad  in  the  court  dress  of 
some  former  century,  in  a  suit  embroidered  with  gold, 
red  stockings,  and  pointed  shoes.  Or  it  is  perhaps  a 
real  mummy?  The  writer  did  not  pause  to  inquire. 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

In  fact,  the  South  Italian  seems  to  be  utterly  destitute 
of  the  feeling  which  prompts  us  to  conceal,  as  far  as 
possible  even  from  our  imaginations,  all  that  is  revolt 
ing  in  death.' 

"  In  France  the  Jour  des  Morts  is  kept  utterly  dis 
tinct  from  La  Toussaint,  or  All  Saints'  Day,  which 
occurs  on  November  ist.  This  is  also  true  of  Italy. 
But  in  many  other  European  Catholic  countries  the 
decorating  of  graves  begins  on  All  Saints'  Day,  either 
because  it  is  looked  upon  as  the  Eve  of  All  Souls',  or 
from  the  pious  and  complimentary  hope  that  the  dead 
in  whom  the  celebrant  is  interested  may  have  already 
passed  out  of  the  penitential  flames  of  purgatory  into 
the  company  of  the  blessed.  In  a  Catholic  Alpine  vil 
lage,  as  soon  as  the  Mass  has  been  heard  on  All  Saints', 
the  women  of  the  family  busy  themselves  with  weaving 
wreaths  of  evergreens,  into  which  any  flowers  that  are 
still  hardy  enough  to  blossom  are  eagerly  worked.  In 
the  afternoon  these  are  carried  to  the  churchyard  and 
laid  upon  the  graves  with  almost  silent  reverence ;  and 
in  the  evening  a  lamp  is  placed  at  the  foot  of  the  last 
resting-place  of  every  departed  friend.  At  such  a 
time  the  cemetery  is  a  strange  sight,  with  the  gar 
lands,  the  lights,  and  the  groups  of  mourners  kneel 
ing,  often  in  the  snow." 

Scarcely  less  curious  than  this  survey  of  Memorial 
Day  manners  is  Brand's  *  account  of  the  very  general 
custom  of  strewing  flowers  upon  the  graves  of  the 
departed. 

"  Gough,  in  the  '  Sepulchral  Monuments,'  speaking  of 

1  In  "  Popular  Antiquities." 


xx  INTRODUCTION 

the  Feralia,  says :  '  The  tombs  were  decked  with  flow 
ers,  particularly  roses  and  lilies.  The  Greeks  used  the 
amaranth  and  polyanthus  (one  species  of  which  re 
sembles  the  hyacinth),  parsley,  myrtle.  The  Romans 
added  fillets  or  bandeaux  of  wool.  The  primitive 
Christians  reprobated  these  as  impertinent  practices/ 
St.  Ambrose,  in  his  Funeral  Oration  on  the  Death  of 
Valentinian,  has  these  words :  '  I  will  not  sprinkle  his 
grave  with  flowers,  but  pour  on  his  spirit  the  odor  of 
Christ.  Let  others  scatter  baskets  of  flowers:  Christ 
is  our  lily,  and  with  this  will  I  consecrate  his  relics/ 
And  St.  Jerome,  in  his  Epistle  to  Pammachius,  upon 
the  death  of  his  wife,  tells  us:  '  Whilst  other  husbands 
strewed  violets,  roses,  lilies,  and  purple  flowers  upon 
the  graves  of  their  wives,  and  comforted  themselves 
with  such-like  offices,  Pammachius  bedewed  her  ashes 
and  venerable  bones  with  the  balsam  of  alms/  But 
in  Prudentius's  time  they  had  adopted  these  customs, 
and  they  obtain,  in  a  degree,  in  some  parts  of  our  own 
country,  as  the  garland  hung  up  in  some  village 
churches  in  Cambridgeshire,  and  other  counties,  after 
the  funeral  of  a  young  woman,  and  the  inclosure  of 
roses  round  graves  in  the  Welsh  churchyards  testify. 
"  In  Malkin's  '  Scenery,  Antiquities,  and  Biography 
of  South  Wales/  we  read : '  The  bed  on  which  the  corpse 
lies  is  always  strewed  with  flowers,  and  the  same  cus 
tom  is  observed  after  it  is  laid  in  the  coffin.  They 
bury  much  earlier  than  we  do  in  England ;  seldom  later 
than  the  third  day,  and  very  frequently  on  the  second. 
The  habit  of  filling  the  bed,  the  coffin,  and  the  room 
with  sweet-scented  flowers,  though  originating  probably 
in  delicacy  as  well  as  affection,  must  of  course  have  a 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

strong  tendency  to  expedite  the  progress  of  decay.  It 
is  an  invariable  practice,  both  by  day  and  night,  to 
watch  a  corpse ;  and  so  firm  a  hold  has  this  supposed 
duty  gained  on  their  imaginations,  that  probably  there 
is  no  instance  upon  record  of  a  family  so  unfeeling  and 
abandoned  as  to  leave  a  dead  body  in  the  room  by  itself 
for  a  single  minute  in  the  interval  between  the  death 
and  burial.  Such  a  violation  of  decency  would  be 
remembered  for  generations.  The  hospitality  of  the 
country  is  not  less  remarkable  on  melancholy  than  on 
joyful  occasions.  The  invitations  to  a  funeral  are  very 
general  and  extensive,  and  the  refreshments  are  not 
light,  and  taken  standing,  but  substantial  and  pro 
longed.  Any  deficiency  in  the  supply  of  ale  would  be 
as  severely  censured  on  this  occasion  as  at  a  festival. 
The  grave  of  the  deceased  is  constantly  overspread 
with  plucked  flowers  for  a  week  or  two  after  the  funeral. 
The  planting  of  graves  with  flowers  is  confined  to  the 
villages  and  the  poorer  people.  It  is  perhaps  a  prettier 
custom.  It  is  very  common  to  dress  the  graves  on 
Whitsunday  and  other  festivals,  when  flowers  are  to 
be  procured;  and  the  frequency  of  this  observance  is 
a  good  deal  affected  by  the  respect  in  which  the  de 
ceased  was  held.  My  father-in-law's  grave  in  Cow- 
bridge  Church  has  been  strewed  by  his  surviving  serv 
ants  every  Sunday  morning  for  these  twenty  years.  It 
is  usual  for  a  family  not  to  appear  at  church  till  what 
is  called  the  month's  end,  when  they  go  in  a  body,  and 
then  are  considered  as  having  returned  to  the  common 
offices  of  life.' 

"  In  the  same  work,  in  notes  on  an  Elegy  written  by 
Mason,  we  are  told  again  that '  it  is  a  very  ancient  and 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

general  practice  in  Glamorgan  to  plant  flowers  on  the 
graves ;  so  that  many  churchyards  have  something  like 
the  splendor  of  a  rich  and  various  parterre.  Besides 
this,  it  is  usual  to  strew  the  graves  with  flowers  and 
evergreens,  within  the  church  as  well  as  out  of  it, 
thrice  at  least  every  year,  on  the  same  principle  of 
delicate  respect  as  the  stones  are  whitened.  No  flowers 
or  evergreens  are  permitted  to  be  planted  on  graves  but 
such  as  are  sweet-scented:  the  pink  and  polyanthus, 
sweet-williams,  gilliflowers  and  carnations,  mignon 
ette,  thyme,  hyssop,  camomile,  and  rosemary,  make  up 
the  pious  decoration  of  this  consecrated  garden.  Turn 
soles,  peonies,  the  African  marigold,  the  anemone,  and 
many  others  I  could  mention,  though  beautiful,  are 
never  planted  on  graves,  because  they  are  not  sweet- 
scented.  It  is  to  be  observed,  however,  that  this 
tender  custom  is  sometimes  converted  into  an  instru 
ment  of  satire;  so  that,  where  persons  have  been  dis 
tinguished  for  their  pride,  vanity,  or  any  other  unpopu 
lar  quality,  the  neighbors  whom  they  may  have  offended 
plant  these  also  by  stealth  upon  their  graves.  The 
white  rose  is  always  planted  on  a  virgin's  tomb.  The 
red  rose  is  appropriated  to  the  grave  of  any  person 
distinguished  for  goodness,  and  especially  benevolence 
of  character.  In  the  Easter  week  most  generally  the 
graves  are  newly  dressed,  and  manured  with  fresh 
earth,  when  such  flowers  or  evergreens  as  may  be 
wanted  or  wished  for  are  planted.  In  the  Whitsun 
tide  holidays,  or  rather  the  preceding  week,  the  graves 
are  again  looked  after,  weeded,  and  otherwise  dressed, 
or,  if  necessary,  planted  again.  It  is  a  very  common 
saying  of  such  persons  as  employ  themselves  in  thus 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

planting  and  dressing  the  graves  of  their  friends,  that 
they  are  cultivating  their  own  freeholds.  This  work 
the  nearest  relations  of  the  deceased  always  do  with 
their  own  hands,  and  never  by  servants  or  hired  per 
sons.  Should  a  neighbor  assist,  he  or  she  never  takes, 
never  expects,  and  indeed  is  never  insulted  by  the  offer 
of  any  reward,  by  those  who  are  acquainted  with  the 
ancient  custom. 

"  Speaking  of  the  church  of  Llanspyddid,  on  the 
south  side  of  the  Uske,  surrounded  with  large  and 
venerable  yew-trees,  Malkin  observes :  '  The  natives  of 
the  principality  pride  themselves  much  on  these  ancient 
ornaments  of  their  churchyards ;  and  it  is  nearly  as  gen 
eral  a  custom  in  Brecknockshire  to  decorate  the  graves 
of  the  deceased  with  slips  either  of  bay  or  yew,  stuck  in 
the  green  turf,  for  an  emblem  of  pious  remembrance, 
as  it  is  in  Glamorganshire  to  pay  a  tribute  of  similar 
import  in  the  cultivation  of  sweet-scented  flowers  on 
the  same  spot.' 

"  Gough,  in  '  Sepulchral  Monuments,'  says :  '  Aubrey 
takes  notice  of  a  custom  of  planting  rose-trees  on  the 
graves  of  lovers  by  the  survivors,  at  Oakley,  Surrey, 
which  may  be  a  remain  of  Roman  manners  among 
us ;  it  being  in  practice  among  them  and  the  Greeks  to 
have  roses  yearly  strewed  on  their  graves. 

"  In  the  Female  Mentor,  1798,  ii.,  we  read:  '  Inde 
pendently  of  the  religious  comfort  which  is  imparted 
in  our  burial  service,  we  sometimes  see  certain  grati 
fications  which  are  derived  from  immaterial  circum 
stances  ;  and,  however  trivial  they  may  appear,  are  not 
to  be  judged  improper,  as  long  as  they  are  perfectly 
innocent.  Of  this  kind  may  be  deemed  the  practice  in 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

some  country  villages  of  throwing  flowers  into  the 
grave ;  and  it  is  curious  to  trace  this  apparently  simple 
custom  up  to  the  politest  periods  of  Greece  and  Rome. 
Virgil,  describing  Anchises  grieving  for  Marcellus, 
says: 

Full  canisters  of  fragrant  lilies  bring, 
Mix'd  with  the  purple  roses  of  the  spring: 
Let  me  with  funeral  flow'rs  his  body  strew : 
This  gift,  which  parents  to  their  children  owe, 
This  unavailing  gift  at  least  I  may  bestow.'" 

It  is  eminently  fitting  that  this  custom  of  decorating 
the  graves  of  our  dead  with  flowers  should  play  the 
leading  part  it  does  in  the  celebration  of  the  Western 
Memorial  Day.  For  the  goddess  Aphrodite  was  no 
more  truly  sea-born  than  this  day  was  flower-born.  It 
happened  thus :  Two  years  after  the  close  of  the  Civil 
War  the  New  York  Tribune  printed  a  paragraph 
simply  stating  that  "  the  women  of  Columbus,  .Miss., 
have  shown  themselves  impartial  in  their  offerings 
made  to  the  memory  of  the  dead.  They  strewed  flow 
ers  alike  on  the  graves  of  the  Confederate  and  of  the 
National  soldiers." 

Whereupon  the  North  thrilled  with  tenderness  and 
Francis  Miles  Finch  was  inspired  to  write  his  moving 
lyric  "  The  Blue  and  the  Gray  "  which  has  become  the 
credo  of  the  festival. 

In  a  famous  address  Chauncey  M.  Depew  related 
the  occurrence  with  felicity :  "  When  the  war  was  over 
in  the  South,  where  under  warmer  skies  and  with 
more  poetic  temperaments  symbols  and  emblems  are 
better  understood  than  in  the  practical  North,  the 
widows,  mothers,  and  the  children  of  the  Confederate 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

dead  went  out  and  strewed  their  graves  with  flowers ; 
at  many  places  the  women  scattered  them  impartially 
also  over  the  unknown  and  unmarked  resting-places  of 
the  Union  soldiers.  As  the  news  of  this  touching 
tribute  flashed  over  the  North  it  roused,  as  nothing 
else  could  have  done,  national  amity  and  love  and 
allayed  sectional  animosity  and  passion.  Thus  out  of 
sorrows  common  alike  to  North  and  South  came  this 
beautiful  custom." 

The  incident,  however,  produced  no  practical  results 
until  in  May,  1868,  Adjutant-General  N.  P.  Chipman 
suggested  to  National  Commander  John  A.  Logan,  of 
the  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic  that  their  organization 
should  inaugurate  the  custom  of  spreading  flowers  bn 
the  graves  of  the  Union  soldiers  at  some  uniform 
time.  General  Logan  immediately  issued  an  order 
naming  the  3oth  day  of  May,  1868,  "  for  the  purpose 
of  strewing  with  flowers  or  otherwise  decorating  the 
graves  of  comrades  who  died  in  defense  of  their  coun 
try  during  the  late  rebellion,  and  whose  bodies  now  lie 
in  almost  every  city,  village,  or  hamlet  churchyard  in 
the  land.  .  .  .  It  is  the  purpose  of  the  commander-in- 
chief  to  inaugurate  this  observance  with  the  hope  that 
it  will  be  kept  up  from  year  to  year  while  a  survivor 
of  the  war  remains  to  honor  the  memory  of  the 
departed." 

The  idea  spread  rapidly.  Legislature  after  legis 
lature  enacted  it  into  law  until  the  holiday  has  become 
a  legal  one  J  in  all  states  except  Arkansas,  Missouri, 
Montana,  New  Mexico,  Texas,  and  West  Virginia. 

i  According  to  the  table  in  "  Deems'  Holy  Days  and  Holi 
days." 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION 

Throughout  the  North  and  West  the  festival  is  very 
generally  celebrated  on  the  3Oth  of  May.  But  April 
26th  is  observed  in  Alabama,  Florida,  Georgia,  and 
Mississippi;  May  loth  in  North  and  South  Carolina; 
May  3Oth  in  Virginia;  and  June  3d  in  Louisiana.. 

Decoration  Day,  the  earlier  name  of  the  festival, 
was  soon  felt  to  be  too  superficial  to  express  the  pro 
found  ideas  and  emotions  to  which  the  occasion  is  dedi 
cated,  just  as  we  now  feel  that  Arbor  Day  is  a  name 
quite  inadequate  for  the  holiday  devoted  to  the  great 
principle  of  conservation.  But,  unlike  the  name  of  the 
latter,  Decoration  Day  was  felicitously  changed  to 
Memorial  Day. 

This  festival,  says  an  unknown  writer  in  the  Illus 
trated  American  for  June  21,  1890,  "  is  not  merely  a 
holiday  in  the  modern  acceptation  of  the  word,  it  real 
izes  its  etymological  significance  as  a  holy  day.  It  is  our 
All  Saints'  Day,  sacred  to  the  memory  of  the  glorified 
dead  who  consecrated  themselves  to  their  country,  were 
baptized  in  blood,  were  beatified  and  canonized  as 
martyrs  for  the  right.  It  is  well  that,  in  the  hurry  and 
press  of  our  times,  when  the  higher  soul  within  us  is 
choked  and  stifled  by  the  more  sordid  cares  of  the 
hour,  by  the  selfish  struggle  for  place  and  pelf,  we 
should  pause  for  a  period  to  dwell  upon  the  memory  of 
the  illustrious  dead  who  gave  their  lives  for  their  coun 
try,  and  who  typify  that  higher  and  truer  Americanism 
which  lies  within  us  still,  dormant  and  latent  indeed, 
yet  ready  to  spring  again  to  the  surface  whenever  the 
needs  of  the  country  issue  a  new  call  to  arms.  It  is 
well  that  we  should  do  them  honor  which  honors  our 
selves  in  the  doing.  But  it  is  well,  also,  that  we  should 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

remember  what  was  their  true  mission  and  their  higher 
success:  that  they  fought  not  through  enmity  to  a 
gallant  and  mistaken  foe,  but  through  love  for  the 
Union,  which  recognized  no  North  and  no  South. 
That  Union  they  have  restored,  and  union  means 
peace,  harmony,  mutual  good  will.  If  they  had  merely 
pinned  together  with  bayonets  the  two  divided  sec 
tions  of  the  country,  they  had  fought  and  bled  and 
fallen  in  vain.  Northern  hatred  for  the  South,  South 
ern  hatred  for  the  North,  is  disloyalty,  is  treason  in 
deed  to  the  Union  which  they  re-established.  A  few 
political  4  leaders  ' — '  leaders  '  who  are  far  in  the  rear 
of  public  sentiment — have  sought  to  make  political  capi 
tal  out  of  the  fact  that  Southerners  cherish  the  memory 
of  the  heroes  who  fought  on  their  side,  and  have 
raised  statues  to  commemorate  them.  But  we  who 
remember  with  pride  the  achievements  of  our  soldiers 
are  proud  to  acknowledge  that  they  had  foemen  worthy 
of  their  steel,  and  that  a  common  country  gave  birth 
to  both.  The  arbitrament  of  the  sword  has  settled 
forever  the  questions  over  which  no  other  tribunal  had 
jurisdiction,  and  the  nation  went  through  the  throes 
of  a  civil  war  for  the  benefit  of  North  and  South  alike.'' 
To  many  of  us  this  reunion  seems  to  symbolize  the 
sublime  side  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  nature  and  yearly 
to  renew  our  faith  that  after  our  next  great  internecine 
strife  is  over,  when  capital  and  labor  have  once  and 
for  all  locked  arms  in  their  perhaps  inevitable  struggle, 
America  may  vindicate  her  inherent  nobility  then  as 
now  in 

"  Love    and    tears    for    the    Blue, 
Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray." 


I 

CELEBRATION 


MEMORIAL  DAY 

FOR  OUR  DEAD 

BY    CLINTON    SCOLLARD 

Flowers  for  our  dead ! 

The  delicate  wild  roses,  faintly  red; 

The  valley  lily  beds,  as  purely  white 

As  shines  their  honor  in  the  vernal  light; 

All  blooms  that  be 

As  fragrant  as  their  fadeless  memory ! 

By  tender  hands  entwined  and  garlanded, 

Flowers  for  our  dead! 

Praise  for  our  dead ! 

For  those  that  followed  and  for  those  that  led, 

Whether  they  felt  death's  burning  accolade, 

When  brothers  drew  the  fratricidal  blade, 

Or  closed  undaunted  eyes 

Beneath  the  Cuban  or  Philippine  skies ! 

While  waves  our  brave,  bright  banner  overhead, 

Praise  for  our  dead ! 

Love  for  our  dead ! 

O  hearts  that  droop  and  mourn,  be  comforted ! 
The  darksome  path  through  the  abyss  of  pain, 
The  final  hour  of  travail  not  in  vain ! 
3 


MEMORIAL  DAY 

For  freedom's  morning  smile 
Broadens  across  the  seas  from  isle  to  isle. 
By  reverent  lips  let  this  fond  word  be  said: 
Love  for  our  dead ! 


AN  ODE  FOR  DECORATION  DAY 

BY  HENRY  PETERSON 

Bring  flowers,  to  strew  again 

With  fragrant  purple  rain 

Of  lilacs,  and  of  roses  white  and  red, 

The  dwellings  of  our  dead — our  glorious  dead ! 

Let  the  bells  ring  a  solemn  funeral  chime, 

And  wild  war-music  bring  anew  the  time 

When  they  who  sleep  beneath 

Were  full  of  vigorous  breath. 
And  in  their  lusty  manhood  sallied  forth, 

Holding  in  strong  right  hand 

The  fortunes  of  the  land, 

The  pride  and  power  and  safety  of  the  North! 
It  seems  but  yesterday 
The  long  and  proud  array — 
But  yesterday  when  e'en  the  solid  rock 
Shook  as  with  earthquake  shock — 
As  North  and  South,  like  two  huge  icebergs,  ground 
Against  each  other  with  convulsive  bound, 
And  the  whole  world  stood  still 

To  view  the  mighty  war, 

And  hear  the  thunderous  roar, 
While  sheeted  lightnings  wrapped  each  plain  and  hill. 


CELEBRATION  5 

Alas !  how  few  came  back 

From  battle  and  from  wrack! 

Alas !  how  many  lie 

Beneath  a  Southern  sky, 

Who  never  heard  the  fearful  fight  was  done, 

And  all  they  fought  for,  won! 

Sweeter,  I  think,  their  sleep, 

More  peaceful  and  more  deep, 

Could    they    but    know    their    wounds    were    not    in 

vain  ; 

Could  they  but  hear  the  grand  triumphal  strain, 
And  see  their  homes  unmarred  by  hostile  tread. 
Ah!  let  us  trust  it  is  so  with  our  dead — 
That  they  the  thrilling  joy  of  triumph  feel,  , 
And  in  that  joy  disdain  the  foeman's  steel. 

We  mourn  for  all,  but  each  doth  think  of  one 

More  precious  to  the  heart  than  aught  beside — 
Some  father,  brother,  husband,  or  some  son, 

Who  came  not  back  or,  coming,  sank  and  died; 
In  him  the  whole  sad  list  is  glorified! 
"  He  fell  'fore  Richmond  in  the  seven  long  days 

When    battle    raged    from    morn    till    blood-dewed 

eve, 
And  lies  there,"  one  pale  widowed  mourner  says, 

And  knows  not  most  to  triumph  or  to  grieve. 
"  My  boy  fell  at  Fair  Oaks,"  another  sighs  ; 
"  And  mine  at  Gettysburg,"  his  neighbor  cries, 

And  that  great  name  each  sad-eyed  listener  thrills. 
I  think  of  one  who  vanished  when  the  press 
Of  battle  surged  along  the  Wilderness, 

And  mourned  the  North  upon  her  thousand  hills. 


6  MEMORIAL  DAY 

0  gallant  brothers  of  the  generous  South ! 
Foes  for  a  day,  and  brothers  for  all  time, 

1  charge  you  by  the  memories  of  our  youth, 
By  Yorkstown's  field  and  Montezuma's  clime, 

Hold  our  dead  sacred,  let  them  quietly  rest 

In  your  unnumbered  vales,  where  God  thought  best! 

Your  vines  and  flowers  learned  long  since  to  forgive, 

And  o'er  their  graves  a  broidered  mantle  weave; 

Be  you  as  kind  as  they  are,  and  the  word 

Shall  reach  the  Northland  with  each  summer  bird, 

And  thoughts  as  sweet  as  summer  shall  awake 

Responsive  to  your  kindness,  and  shall  make 

Our  peace  the  peace  of  brothers  once  again, 

And  banish  utterly  the  days  of  pain. 

And  ye,  O  Northmen !  be  ye  not  outdone 

In  generous  thought  and  deed. 
We  all  do  need  forgiveness,  every  one; 

And  they  that  give  shall  find  it  in  their  need. 
Spare  of  your  flowers  to  deck  the  stranger's  grave, 

Who  died  for  a  lost  cause; 
A  soul  more  daring,  resolute,  and  brave 

Ne'er  won  a  world's  applause! 
(A  brave  man's  hatred  pauses  at  the  tomb.) 
For  him  some  Southern  home  was  robed  in  gloom, 
Some  wife  or  mother  looked,  with  longing  eyes, 
Through   the   sad   days   and   nights,   with   tears   and 

sighs- 
Hope  slowly  hardening  into  gaunt  Despair. 
Then  let  your  foeman's  grave  remembrance  share; 
For  pity  a  high  charm  to  Valor  lends, 
And  in  the  realms  of  Sorrow  all  are  friends. 


CELEBRATION  7 

Yes,  bring  fresh  flowers,  and  strew  the  soldier's  grave, 

Whether  he  proudly  lies 

Beneath  our  Northern  skies, 

Or  where  the  Southern  palms  their  branches  wave. 
Let  the  bells  toll,  and  wild  war-music  swell, 

And  for  one  day  the  thought  of  all  the  past — 

Full  of  those  memories  vast — 
Come  back  and  haunt  us  with  its  mighty  spell! 
Bring  flowers,  then,  once  again, 
And  strew  with  fragrant  rain 
Of  lilacs,  and  of  roses  white  and  red, 
The  dwellings  of  our  dead. 


COVER  THEM  OVER  WITH  BEAUTIFUL 
FLOWERS 

Decoration  Day  Hymn 

ANONYMOUS 

Cover  them  over  with  beautiful  flow'rs, 
Deck  them  with  garlands  those  brothers  of  ours, 
Lying  so  silent  by  night  and  by  day, 
Sleeping  the  years  of  their  manhood  away. 
Give  them  the  meed  they  have  won  in  the  past ; 
Give  them  the  honors  their  future  forecast ; 
Give  them  the  chaplets  they  won  in  the  strife ; 
Give  them  the  laurels  they  lost  with  their  life. 


8  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Chorus. 

Cover  them  over,  yes,  cover  them  over, 
Parent  and  husband,  brother  and  lover, 
Crown  in  your  hearts  those  dead  heroes  of  ours, 
Cover  them  over  with  beautiful  flow'rs. 

Cover  the  hearts  that  have  beaten  so  high. 
Beaten  with  hopes  that  were  doomed  but  to  die; 
Hearts  that  have  burned  in  the  heat  of  the  fray  ; 
Hearts  that  have  yearned  for  the  home  far  away. 
Once  they  were  glowing  with  friendship  and  love, 
Now  their  great  souls  have  gone  soaring  above ; 
Bravely  their  blood  to  the  nation  they  gave, 
Then  in  her  bosom  they  found  them  a  grave. 

Cho. 

Cover  the  thousands  who  sleep  far  away, 
Sleep  where  their  friends  cannot  find  them  to-day, 
They,  who  in  mountain  and  hillside  and  dell, 
Rest  where  they  wearied,  and  lie  where  they  fell. 
Softly  the  grass  blades  creep  round  their  repose; 
Sweetly  above  them  the  wild  flowret  blows; 
Zephyrs  of  freedom  fly  gently  o'erhead, 
Whispering  prayers  for  the  patriot  dead. 

Cho. 

When  the  long  years  have  rolled  slowly  away, 
E'en  to  the  dawn  of  earth's  funeral  day; 
When,  at  the  angel's  loud  trumpet  and  tread, 
Rise  up  the  faces  and  forms  of  the  dead, 


CELEBRATION 

When  the  great  world  its  last  judgment  awaits; 
When  the  blue  sky  shall  fling  open  its  gates, 
And  our  long  columns  march  silently  through, 
Past  the  Great  Captain  for  final  review. 

Chorus. 

Blessings  for  garlands  shall  cover  them  over, 
Parent  and  husband,  brother  and  lover, 
God  will  reward  those  dead  heroes  of  ours, 
Cover  them  over  with  beautiful  flow'rs. 


MEMORIAL  DAY 

ANONYMOUS 

Memorial  Day,  with  its  sad  and  sacred  memories, 
has  again  come.  And  as  each  new  one  makes  its  ad 
vent,  we  recall  anew  the  great  and  tragic  events  that 
made  the  occasion  for  the  day.  Time  in  his  rapid 
flight  has  borne  us  on  till  we  are  thirty-one  years  from 
the  close  of  the  great  Civil  War,  in  which  thousands  of 
lives  were  sacrificed  and  billions  of  treasure  expended 
to  save  our  country  from  dismemberment.  The  asper-  ' 
ities  and  alienations  engendered  by  the  great  struggle 
between  freedom  and  slavery  have  largely  passed 
away;  and  those  who  participated  as  soldiers  on  both 
sides,  who  are  still  living,  fraternize  with  each  other  j 
as  brothers  and  fellow-citizens  of  one  common  coun 
try,  on  whose  glorious  banner  is  inscribed  forever, 


io  MEMORIAL  DAY 

E  pluribus  unum.  It  is  meet  that  those  who  sacrificed 
and  died  in  the  struggle,  or  who  sacrificed  and  have 
since  died,  should  be  remembered  and  honored  for 
the  invaluable  service  they  have  rendered  their  coun 
try  and  humanity.  Let  the  graves  of  the  dead  soldiers 
be  decorated  with  flowers  and  wreaths  of  laurel,  and 
the  memory  of  their  noble  deeds  revived  anew  in 
oratory  and  song. 


THE  WHITE  BRIGADE1 

BY   JOHN    MACY 

(On  a  recent  Memorial  Day,  in  New  York  City,  while  the 
veterans  marched  in  the  streets,  processions  of  children,  May 
parties  postponed  by  a  tardy  spring,  mingled  with  the  crowds 
on  the  walks  and  in  the  parks.) 

Between  the  cliffs  of  brick  and  stone, 
Hoarse,  like  a  river  clamoring  down 

A  canon  gorge,  the  quenchless  moan 
Of  being  echoes  through  the  town. 

The  lurid  streets  with  life  are  loud. 

There  is  no  hush  of  holiday 
Upon  the  million-throated  crowd 

Where  old  men  march — and  children  play. 

For,  see,  the  desert  springs  to  light, 
Like  fragile  fairies  roamed  away 

From  magic  woods,  all  clad  in  white, 
The  children  keep  the  feast  of  May. 

the  Century  Magazine. 


CELEBRATION  u 

Up  the  stern  streets,  through  park  and  square, 
They  seek  the  shaded  plots  of  green, 

Dear  vaporous  angels  of  the  air, 

Sweet  phantoms  from  a  mythic  scene. 

It  is  not  real.     Such  elfin  youth 

To  blossom  'mid  this  barren  stone ! 
The  bleak,  loud  city  is  the  truth. 

The  vision  of  a   dream  is   flown. 

And  yet  it  stays.     The  people  part 
To  let  the  white  processions  through. 

Rude,  slandered  walls,  your  hidden  heart 
Is  pure,  if  such  were  born  in  you. 

And  ndw  with  slow  tap  to  the  drag 

Of  aged  feet,  the  steady  drum 
Sounds   where   a   cross   street   cleaves   the   crag, 

And  down  the  park  the  old  troops  come. 

Strange  interweaving  of  old  gray 
With  delicate  child  white,  all  designed 

On  the  tense  fabric  of  to-day — 
To-day  with  elder  days  entwined. 

These  ancient   remnants   tottering  by 

Were  comrades  to  a  host  of  boys, 
Brave  young  battalions  thrown  to  die, 

Now  white  like  those  new-budded  joys. 

Slow-footed   age,    time-conquered,   bowed, 
We  march  as  once  you  marched.     Through  you 


12  MEMORIAL  DAY 

We  new  recruits,  this  heedless  crowd, 
Are  veterans,  are  victors,  too. 

White  flame  of  childhood,  we  would  throw 
Our  lives  to  shield  you  from  a  breath. 

Pass  on,  old  men,  to  peace,  for,  lo! 

Life  blooms  among  the  ranks  of  death. 


HONOR  OUR   PATRIOT   DEAD 

ANONYMOUS 

Memorial  Day  is  consecrated  to  the  soldiers;  it  is 
dedicated  to  patriotism ;  around  this  sacred  day  cluster 
precious  memories  of  our  fallen  brave.  Over  the 
silent  chambers  of  our  sleeping  comrades  we  wreathe 
garlands  of  flowers — symbols  of  our  love  and  grati 
tude.  These  graves  are  the  Nation's  shrine,  the 
Mecca  to  which  patriots  journey  to  renew  their  de 
votion  to  the  cause  for  which  these  patriots  died. 
The  fruits  of  their  victories  are  a  united  country. 
This  is  a  sacred  heritage  purchased  by  their  valor 
and  sealed  by  their  blood.  History  is  their  encomium. 
Battlefields  attest  their  courage. 

"  Sleep,  heroes,  sleep ; 
Your   deeds   shall    never   die." 


CELEBRATION  13 

FOR  DECORATION  DAY 

BY  RUPERT  HUGHES 

I 
l86l-l865 

But  do  we  truly  mourn  our  soldier  dead, 

Or  understand  at  all  their  precious  fame — 

We  that  were  born  too  late  to  feel  the  flame 

That  leapt  from  lowly  hearths,  and  grew,  dispread, 

And,  like  a  pillar  of  fire,  our  armies  led? 

Or  you  that  knew  them — do  the  long  years  tame 

The  memory-anguish  ?    Are  they  more  than  name  ? 

Oh,  let  no  stinted  grief  profane  their  bed ! 

Let  tears  bedew  each  wreath  that  decks  the  lawn 

Of  every  grave !  and  raise  a  solemn  prayer 

That  their  battalioned  souls  be  joined  to  fare 

Dim  roads,  beyond  the  trumpets  of  the  dawn, 

Yet  perfumed,  somehow,  by  our  flowers  that  heap 

The  peaceful  barracks  where  their  bodies  sleep. 

ii 

1898-1899 

And  now  the  long,  long  lines  of  the  Nation's  graves 

Grow  longer ;  and  the  venerate  slopes  reveal 

The  fresh  spring  turf  gashed  thick  with  tombs  to  seal 

Away  another  army  of  our  braves. 

So  hang  black  garlands  from  the  architraves 

Of  all  the  capitols.     The  dying  peal 

Of  bugles  wails  their  final  Taps.     So  kneel 

And  give  the  dead  the  due  their  virtue  craves. 


14  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Thank  God,  the  olden  sinew  still  is  bred ; 
The  milk  of  American  mothers  still  is  sweet ; 
The  sword  of  Seventy-six  is  sharp  and  bright ; 
The  Flag  still  floats  unblotted  with  defeat ! 
But  ah  the  blood  that  keeps  its  ripples  red, 
The  starry  lives  that  keep  its  field  alight; 
The  pangs  of  women  and  the  tears  they've  bled. 

The  Lord  enlarge  our  spirits  till  we  feel 

The  greatness  of  these  spirits  upward  fled. 

A  kind  of  genius  it  has  been  that  fed 

Them  strength  to  be,  above  all.  passions,  leal. 

They  put  aside  the  velvet  for  the  steel, 

Left  love,  and  hope,  and  ease  at  home ;  and  sped 

To  the  wilderness  of  war  and  every  dread. 

Their  blood  is  mortar  for  our  commonweal ; 

Their  deeds  its  decoration  and  its  boast. 

So  mix  with  dirges,  triumph ;  smiles,  with  tears. 

Make  sorrow  perfect  with  exultant  pride — 

Our  vanished  armies  have  not  truly  died ; 

They  march  to-day  before  the  heavenly  host; 

And  history's  veterans  raise  a  storm  of  cheers, 

As  the  Yankee  troops — with  glory  armed  and  shod- 

In  Grand  Review  swing  past  the  throne  of  God. 


LITTLE  NAN 

ANONYMOUS 

The  wide  gates  swung  open, 
The  music  softly  sounded, 

And  loving  hands  were  heaping  the  soldiers'  graves 
with  flowers; 


CELEBRATION  15 

With  pansies,  pinks,  and  roses, 
And  pure  gold-hearted  lilies, 

The  fairest,  sweetest  blossoms  that  grace  the  spring 
time  bowers ; 

When  down  the  walk  came  tripping 
A  wee,  bare-headed  girlie, 

Her  eyes  were   filled   with  wonder,  her   face  was 

grave  and  sweet ; 

Her  small  brown  hands  were  crowded 
With  dandelions  yellow — 

The  gallant,  merry  blossoms  that  children  love  to 
greet. 

O,  many  smiled  to  see  her, 
That  dimple-cheeked  wee  baby, 

Pass  by  with  quaint  intentness,   as  on  a  mission 

bound ; 

And,  pausing  oft  an  instant, 
Let  fall  from  out  her  treasures 

A  yellow  dandelion  upon  each  flower-strewn  mound. 

The  music  died  in  silence, 
A  robin  ceased  its  singing, 

And  in  the  fragrant  stillness  a  birdlike  whisper  grew, 
So  sweet,  so  clear  and  solemn, 
That  smiles  gave  place  to  tear-drops: 

"  Nan  loves  'oo,  darlin'  soldier ;  an'  here's  a  f 'ower 
for  'oo." 


16  MEMORIAL  DAY 

A  MONUMENT  FOR  THE  SOLDIER1 

BY   JAMES   WHITCOMB  RILEY 

A  monument  for  the  Soldiers! 

And  what  will  ye  build  it  of? 
Can  ye  build  it  of  marble,  or  brass,  or  bronze, 

Outlasting  the  Soldiers'  love? 
Can  ye  glorify  it  with  legends 

As  grand  as  their  blood  hath  writ 
From  the  inmost  shrine  of  this  land  of  thine 

To  the  outermost  verge  of  it? 

And  the  answer  came:  We  would  build  it 

Out  of  our  hopes  made  sure, 
And  out  of  our  purest  prayers  and  tears, 

And  out  of  our  faith  secure: 
We  would  build  it  out  of  the  great  white  truths 

Their  death  hath  sanctified, 
And  the  sculptured  forms  of  the  men  in  arms, 

And  their  faces  ere  they  died. 

And  what  heroic  figures 

Can  the  sculptor  carve  in  stone? 
Can  the  marble  breast  be  made  to  bleed, 

And  the  marble  lips  to  moan? 
Can  the  marble  brow  be  fevered  ? 

And  the  marble  eyes  be  graved 
To  look  their  last,  as  the  flag  floats  past, 

On  the  country  they  have  saved  ? 

1  From  "  Green  Fields  and  Running  Brooks,"  1892,  Bobbs- 
Merrill  Co. 


CELEBRATION  17 

And  the  answer  came:  The  figures 

Shall  all  be  fair  and  brave, 
And,  as  befitting,  as  pure  and  white 

As  the  stars  above  their  grave ! 
The  marble  lips,  and  breast,  and  brow 

Whereon  the  laurel  lies, 
Bequeath  us  right  to  guard  the  flight 

Of  the  old  flag  in  the  skies ! 

A  monument  for  the  Soldiers ! 

Built  of  a  people's  love, 
And  blazoned  and  decked  and  panoplied 

With  the  hearts  ye  build  it  of ! 
And  see  that  ye  build  it  stately, 

In  pillar  and  niche  and  gate, 
And  high  in  pose  as  the  souls  of  those 

It  would  commemorate ! 


DECORATION  DAY1 

BY   RICHARD   WATSON    GILDER 

She  saw  the  bayonets  flashing  in  the  sun, 

The  flags  that  proudly  waved;  she  heard  the  bugles 

calling; 

She  saw.  the  tattered  banners  falling 
About  the  broken  staffs,  as  one  by  one 
The  remnant  of  the  mighty  army  passed ; 

1  By  permission  of  the  publishers,  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 


i8  MEMORIAL  DAY 

And  at  the  last 

Flowers  for  the  graves  of  those  whose  fight  was  done. 

She  heard  the  tramping  of  ten  thousand  feet 
As  the  long  line  swept  round  the  crowded  square; 
She  heard  the  incessant  hum 
That  filled  the  warm  and  blossom-scented  air, — 
The  shrilling  fife,  the  roll  and  throb  of  drum, 
The  happy  laugh,  the  cheer, — Oh  glorious  and  meet 
To  honor  thus  the  dead, 
Who  chose  the  better  part 
And  for  their  country  bled ! 

— The  dead !  Great  God !  she  stood  there  in  the  street, 
Living,  yet  dead  in  soul  and  mind  and  heart — 
While  far  away 

His  grave  was  decked  with  flowers  by  strangers'  hands 
to-day. 


MEMORIAL  DAY 

BY  LOUIS  IMOGEN  GUINEY 

O  day  of  roses  and  regret, 
Kissing  the  old  graves  of  our  own ! 
Not  to  the  slain  love's  lovely  debt 
Alone  ; 

But  jealous  hearts  that  live  and  ache 
Remember,  and  while  drums  are  mute, 
Beneath  your  banners'  bright  outbreak, 
Salute : 


CELEBRATION  19 

And  say  for  us  to  lessening  ranks 

That  keep  the  memory  and  the  pride, 

On  whose  thinned  hair  our  tears  and  thanks 

Abide, 


Who  from  their  saved  Republic  pass, 
Glad  with  the  Prince  of  Peace  to  dwell: 
Hail,  dearest  few !  and  soon,  alas, 
Farewell. 


II 

SPIRIT  AND  SIGNIFICANCE 


DECORATION  DAY  ADDRESS 

BY    JAMES    A.    GARFIELD 

Extract  from  an  Oration  delivered  at  Arlington,  Va., 
May  30,  1868 

I  am  oppressed  with  a  sense  of  the  impropriety  of 
uttering  words  on  this  occasion.  If  silence  is  ever 
golden,  it  must  be  here  beside  the  graves  of  fifteen 
thousand  men,  whose  lives  were  more  significant  than 
speech,  and  whose  death  was  a  poem,  the  music  of 
which  can  never  be  sung.  With  words  we  make  prom 
ises,  plight  faith,  praise  virtue.  Promises  may  not  be 
kept ;  plighted  faith  may  be  broken  ;  and  vaunted  virtue 
be  only  the  cunning  mask  of  vice.  We  do  not  know 
one  promise  these  men  made,  one  pledge  they  gave, 
one  word  they  spoke ;  but  we  do  know  they  summed 
up  and  perfected,  by  one  supreme  act,  the  highest  vir 
tues  of  men  and  citizens.  For  love  of  country  they  ac 
cepted  death,  and  thus  resolved  all  doubts,  and  made 
immortal  their  patriotism  and  their  virtue.  For  the 
noblest  man  that  lives,  there  still  remains  a  conflict. 
He  must  still  withstand  the  assaults  of  time  and  for 
tune,  must  still  be  assailed  with  temptations,  before 
which  lofty  natures  have  fallen;  but  with  these  the 
conflict  ended,  the  victory  was  won,  when  death 
stamped  on  them  the  great  seal  of  heroic  char- 

23 


24  MEMORIAL  DAY 

acter,  and  closed  a  record  which  years  can  never  blot. 

I  know  of  nothing  more  appropriate  on  this  occa 
sion  than  to  inquire  what  brought  these  men  here ; 
what  high  motive  led  them  to  condense  life  into  an 
hour,  and  to  crown  that  hour  by  joyfully  welcoming 
death  ?  Let  us  consider. 

Eight  years  ago  this  -was  the  most  unwarlike  na 
tion  of  the  earth.  For  nearly  fifty  years  no  spot  in 
any  of  these  states  had  been  the  scene  of  battle. 
Thirty  millions  of  people  had  an  army  of  less  than 
ten  thousand  men.  The  faith  of  our  people  in  the 
stability  and  permanence  of  their  institutions  was  like 
their  faith  in  the  eternal  course  of  nature.  Peace,  lib 
erty,  and  personal  security  were  blessings  as  common 
and  universal  as  sunshine  and  showers  and  fruitful 
seasons ;  and  all  sprang  from  a  single  source,  the  old 
American  principle  that  all  owe  due  submission  and 
obedience  to  the  lawfully  expressed  will  of  the  major 
ity.  This  is  not  one  of  the  doctrines  of  our  political 
system — it  is  the  system  itself.  It  is  our  political 
firmament,  in  which  all  other  truths  are  set,  as  stars 
in  Heaven.  It  is  the  encasing  air,  the  breath  of  the 
Nation's  life.  Against  this  principle  the  whole  weight 
of  the  rebellion  was  thrown.  Its  overthrow  would 
have  brought  such  ruin  as  might  follow  in  the  phys 
ical  universe,  if  the  power  of  gravitation  were  de 
stroyed,  and 

"  Nature's  concord  broke, 
Among  the  constellations  war  were  sprung, 
Two  planets,  rushing  from  aspect  malign 
Of  fiercest  opposition,  in  mid-sky 
Should  combat,  and  their  jarring  spheres  confound." 


SPIRIT  AND  SIGNIFICANCE  25 

The  Nation  was  summoned  to  arms  by  every  high 
motive  which  can  inspire  men.  Two  centuries  of 
freedom  had  made  its  people  unfit  for  despotism.  They 
must  save  their  Government  or  miserably  perish. 

As  a  flash  of  lightning  in  a  midnight  tempest  re 
veals  the  abysmal  horrors  of  the  sea,  so  did  the  flash 
of  the  first  gun  disclose  the  awful  abyss  into  which 
rebellion  was  ready  to  plunge  us.  In  a  moment  the 
fire  was  lighted  in  twenty  million  hearts.  In  a  mo 
ment  we  were  the  most  warlike  Nation  on  the  earth. 
In  a  moment  we  were  not  merely  a  people  with  an 
army — we  were  a  people  in  arms.  The  Nation  was  in 
column — not  all  at  the  front,  but  all  in  the  array. 

I  love  to  believe  that  no  heroic  sacrifice  is  ever  lost ; 
that  the  characters  of  men  are  molded  and  inspired 
by  what  their  fathers  have  done;  that  treasured  up 
in  American  souls  are  all  the  unconscious  influences 
of  the  great  deeds  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race,  from 
Agincourt  to  Bunker  Hill.  It  was  such  an  influence 
that  led  a  young  Greek,  two  thousand  years  ago,  when 
musing  on  the  battle  of  Marathon,  to  exclaim,  "  the 
trophies  of  Miltiades  will  not  let  me  sleep !  "  Could 
these  men  be  silent  in  1861 ;  these,  whose  ancestors 
had  felt  the  inspiration  of  battle  on  every  field  where 
civilization  had  fought  in  the  last  thousand  years? 
Read  their  answer  in  this  green  turf.  Each  for  him 
self  gathered  up  the  cherished  purposes  of  life — its 
aims  and  ambitions,  its  dearest  affections — and  flung 
all,  with  life  itself,  into  the  scale  of  battle. 

And  now  consider  this  silent  assembly  of  the  dead. 
What  does  it  represent?  Nay,  rather,  what  does  it 
not  represent?  It  is  an  epitome  of  the  war.  Here 


26  MEMORIAL  DAY 

are  sheaves  reaped  in  the  harvest  of  death,  from  every 
battlefield  of  Virginia.  If  each  grave  had  a  voice 
to  tell  us  what  its  silent  tenant  last  saw  and  heard  on 
earth,  we  might  stand,  with  uncovered  heads,  and  hear 
the  whole  story  of  the  war.  We  should  hear  that  one 
perished  when  the  first  great  drops  of  the  crimson 
shower  began  to  fall,  when  the  darkness  of  that  first 
disaster  at  Manassas  fell  like  an  eclipse  on  the  Na 
tion;  that  another  died  of  disease  while  wearily  wait 
ing  for  winter  to  end;  that  this  one  fell  on  the  field, 
in  sight  of  the  spires  of  Richmond,  little  dreaming 
that  the  flag  must  be  carried  through  three  more  years 
of  blood  before  it  should  be  planted  in  that  citadel  of 
treason;  and  that  one  fell  when  the  tide  of  war  had 
swept  us  back  till  the  roar  of  rebel  guns  shook  the  dome 
of  yonder  Capitol,  and  re-echoed  in  the  chambers  of 
the  Executive  Mansion.  We  should  hear  mingled 
voices  from  the  Rappahannock,  the  Rapidan,  the 
Chickahominy,  and  the  James ;  solemn  voices  from  the 
Wilderness,  and  triumphant  shouts  from  the  Shenan- 
doah,  from  Petersburg,  and  the  Five  Forks,  mingled 
with  the  wild  acclaim  of  victory  and  the  sweet  chorus 
of  returning  peace.  The  voices  of  these  dead  will 
forever  fill  the  land  like  holy  benedictions. 

What  other  spot  so  fitting  for  their  last  resting  place 
as  this,  under  the  shadow  of  the  Capitol  saved  by  their 
valor?  Here,  where  the  grim  edge  of  battle  joined; 
here,  where  all  the  hope  and  fear  and  agony  of  their 
country  centered;  here  let  them  rest,  asleep  on  the 
Nation's  heart,  entombed  in  the  Nation's  love! 


SPIRIT  AND  SIGNIFICANCE  27 


MEMORIAL  DAY 

BY  WALLACE  BRUCE 

I  come  with  chaplet  woven  new 

From  May-day  flowers,  to  fade  away; 

You  come  to-night,  brave  boys  in  blue, 
With  record  bright,  to  last  for  aye. 

Yet  all  I  have  I  gladly  bring 

With  heart  and  voice  at  your  command ; 
I  only  wish  the  words  I  sing, 

Were  worthier  of  your  noble  band— 

A  living  wreath  of  lasting  fame 

To  match  your  deeds  that  fill  the  world. 

Ah,  lyric  vain!  each  hero's  name 
Is  on  your  banners'  folds  unfurled. 

Those  stars  are  there  in  setting  blue, 
Because  you  answered  to  the  call. 

We  bring  no  eulogy  on  you ; 
You  honor  us — you  won  it  all. 

And  what  avails  our  word  of  praise 
To  you  who  stand  as  in  a  dream 

On  guard  in  rugged  mountain  ways, 
In  camp  by  many  a  sluggish  stream  ? 

Among  the  clouds  on  Lookout  Height, 
With  Hooker  down  in  Tennessee; 

Again  the  boys  "  mit  Sigel  fight," 
You  march  with  Sherman  to  the  sea. 


28  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Port  Hudson,  Vicksburg,  New  Orleans, 
Antietam,  Shiloh,  Malvern  Hill — 

A  hundred  fields,  a  thousand  scenes 
The  moistened  lens  of  memory  fill. 

On  fields  with  Grant,  whose  grave  is  white 
With  flowers  from  many  a  distant  State, 

Through  many  a  long  and  weary  night 
You  learned  with  him  to  toil  and  wait. 

And  there  with  Hancock,  soldier  true, 
At  Gettysburg  you  held  the  line; 

No  nobler  heart  beneath  the  blue, 
For  him  the  nation's  flowers  entwine. 

Brave  captains,  noble  comrades,  rest! 

No  bugle-note  or  war's  alarms 
Disturb  your  sleep  on  Nature's  breast — 

That  silent  camp  of  grounded  arms. 

Your  ranks  are  thinner,  boys,  to-day, 
Than  just  one  little  year  ago; 

On  many  a  brow  a  touch  of  gray 
Anticipates  the  winter's  snow. 

And  fewer  comrades,  year  by  year, 
Shall  gather  summer's  kindly  bloom, 

And  fewer  brothers  drop  the  tear 
Upon  the  soldier's  sacred  tomb. 

The  twenty  years  have  left  their  trace 
Since  you  returned  the  homeward  route; 

Twice  twenty  more  your  ranks  efface ; 
The  boys  will  all  be  mustered  out, 


SPIRIT  AND  SIGNIFICANCE  29 

Who  kept  the  faith  and  fought  the  fight; 

The  glory  theirs,  the  duty  ours ; 
They  earned  the  crown,  the  hero's  right, 

The  victor's  wreath — a  crown  of  flowers. 


MEMORIAL  DAY  MESSAGES 

Let  no  vandalism  of  avarice  or  neglect,  no  ravages 
of  time,  testify  to  the  present  or  to  the  coming  gen 
erations,  that  we  have  forgotten,  as  a  people,  the  cost 
of  a  free  and  undivided  Republic. 

General  John  A.  Logan. 


We  honor  our  heroic  and  patriotic  dead  by  being 
true  men,  as  true  men  by  faithfully  fighting  the  bat 
tles  of  our  day  as  they  fought  the  battles  of  their  day. 

David  Gregg. 

The  supporters  of  religion  gave  their  lives  for  a 
principle.  These  martyrs  of  patriotism  gave  their 
lives  for  an  idea. 

Schuylcr  Colfax. 

7 

As  a  basis  for  permanently  satisfactory  results  of 
the  war,  we  should  recognize  the  claims  of  justice  and 
equal  rights  to  all  classes  and  sections,  a  fair  appor 
tionment  of  public  burdens  and  benefits,  with  special 
privileges  and  exemptions  to  none.  Careful  and  prac 
tical  teachings  along  this  line  will  be  a  patriotic  work. 

Judge  James  W .  Lapsley. 


30  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Memorial  Day,  in  my  opinion,  is  one  of  the  most 
significant  and  beautiful  occasions  of  the  year.  It 
shows  the  sentiment  of  the  people  toward  those  who 
gave  their  lives  for  a  good  cause,  and  it  teaches  a  les 
son  in  patriotism  which  is  without  a  parallel.  Me 
morial  Day  cannot  be  too  tenderly  revered  by  old  and 
young,  by  those  who  participated  in  one  of  the  Na 
tion's  great  struggles,  or  by  those  who  simply  know 
of  it  as  history.  Our  common  country  each  year  is 
paying  a  greater  tribute  of  respect  to  the  soldiers,  liv 
ing  and  dead,  and  it  is  my  hope  that  this  rule  may  be 
expanded  still  more  in  the  years  to  come. 

Anonymous. 


ARE  DEAD  HEROES  PRESENT? 

ANONYMOUS 

Why  may  not  the  men  themselves,  who  died  be 
neath  their  country's  flag,  be  now  among  their  homes 
to  which  their  last  living  thoughts  were  turned,  and 
here  with  us  to-day?  We  do  not  know,  but  can  we 
not  in  hope  believe,  with  a  solid,  substantial,  reasonable 
belief  and  hope,  that  our  heroes  now  stand  about  us, 
unseen  and  unheard,  as  we  join  to  do  honor  to  their 
memories  ?  The  naked  human  eye  is  not  made  to  dis 
close  the  presence  of  the  myriad  forms  that  exist 
about  us,  and  the  human  ear  is  not  attuned  to  note 
the  solemn  symphonies  of  the  music  of  the  spheres. 


SPIRIT  AND  SIGNIFICANCE  31 

TRIBUTE  TO  THE  UNKNOWN 

BY  SENIOR  VICE-COMMANDER  BURRAGE 

We  pay  the  tribute  of  respect  and  reverence  to  the 
gallant  men  who  sacrificed  their  lives  to  the  perpetu 
ation  of  the  Union,  and  who  now  lie  in  common  graves 
marked  "  unknown."  It  was  fitting  at  this  season  of 
vernal  bloom,  when  nature  is  joyful  with  life,  that  our 
thoughts  should  turn  to  those  who  gave  their  lives,  as 
dear  to  them  as  ours  to  us,  and  that  their  memory 
should  be  honored  and  reverenced. 


ODE  FOR  MEMORIAL  DAY  * 

BY   PAUL   LAURENCE   DUNBAR 

Done  are  the  toils  and  the  wearisome  marches, 

Done  is  the  summons  of  bugle  and  drum. 
Softly  and  sweetly  the  sky  overarches, 

Sheltering  a  land  where  Rebellion  is  dumb. 
Dark  were  the  days  of  the  country's  derangement, 

Sad  were  the  hours  when  the  conflict  was  on, 
But  through  the  gloom  of  fraternal  estrangement 

God  sent  his  light,  and  we  welcome  the  dawn. 
O'er  the  expanse  of  our  mighty  dominions, 

Sweeping  away  to  the  uttermost  parts, 
Peace,  the  wide-flying,  on  untiring  pinions, 

Bringeth  her  message  of  joy  to  our  hearts. 

1  From  "  Lyrics  of  Lowly  Life,"  by  P.  L.  Dunbar,     Dodd, 
Mead   &   Co.,    1898. 


32  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Ah,  but  this  joy  which  our  minds  cannot  measure 

What  did  it  cost  for  our  fathers  to  gain ! 
Bought  at  the  price  of  the  heart's  dearest  treasure, 

Born  out  of  travail  and  sorrow  and  pain ; 
Born  in  the  battle  where  fleet  Death  was  flying, 

Slaying  with  saber-stroke  bloody  and  fell; 
Born  where  the  heroes  and  martyrs  were  dying, 

Torn  by  the  fury  of  bullet  and  shell. 
Ah,  but  the  day  is  past:  silent  the  rattle, 

And  the  confusion  that  followed  the  fight. 
Peace  to  the  heroes  who  died  in  the  battle, 

Martyrs  to  truth  and  the  crowning  of  Right! 

Out  of  the  blood  of  a  conflict  fraternal, 

Out  of  the  dust  and  the  dimness  of  death, 
Burst  into  blossoms  of  glory  eternal 

Flowers  that  sweeten  the  world  with  their  breath. 
Flowers  of  charity,  peace,  and  devotion 

Bloom  in  the  hearts  that  are  empty  of  strife ; 
Love  that  is  boundless  and  broad  as  the  ocean 

Leaps  into  beauty  and  fullness  of  life. 
So,  with  the  singing  of  paeans  and  chorals, 

And  with  the  flag  flashing  high  in  the  sun, 
Place  on  the  graves  of  our  heroes  the  laurels 

Which  their  unfaltering  valor  has  won! 


SPIRIT  AND  SIGNIFICANCE  33 

THE   MONUMENT'S   MESSAGE 

BY    CHARLES    ELMER   ALLISON 

In  front  of  Manor  Hall,  Yonkcrs,  N.  Y.,  in  which 
city  this  "  Message "  was  delivered,  stands  the 
Soldiers'  Monument 

The  polished  granite  in  front  of  old  Manor  Hall, 
combines  strength  and  grace.  "  The  quarry  has  blos 
somed  into  the  air."  Stone  and  bronze  stand  out  un 
der  the  stars,  defying  the  storms  and  the  seasons. 
Stable  and  beautiful  they  will  stand,  saluting  the  far 
future,  when  ours  is  a  buried  generation,  sleeping  "  the 
iron  sleep."  A  great  English  poet,  whose  pen  is  a 
gilded  scepter,  says  there  are  sermons  in  stones.  The 
granite  lips  of  yonder  Color-Bearer  are  mute,  yet 
they  speak  to  the  spirit's  finer  ear.  All  of  those 
memorial  stones,  from  pedestal  to  carved  capital  and 
surmounting  standard,  have  a  voice.  We  bring  you 
the  Monument's  Message. 

The  costly  column  is  reared  on  American  Soil,  and 
America  is  the  garden  of  the  Lord — great  in  extent 
and  resources,  great  in  history,  great  in  destiny.  Im 
perial  Rome  "  policed  the  world."  Her  empire  ex 
tended  3,000  miles  in  one  direction,  and  2,000  in  an 
other.  As  to  extent  of  territory,  this  Nation  is  a 
modern  Rome. 

"  What  shall  we  say  of  a  Republic  of  eighteen  states, 
each  as  large  as  Spain,  or  one  of  thirty  states,  each  as 
large  as  Italy,  or  one  of  sixty  states,  each  as  large  as 


34  MEMORIAL  DAY 

England  and  Wales?  Take  five  of  the  six  first-class 
Powers  of  Europe,  Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  France, 
Germany,  Austria,  and  Italy;  then  add  Spain,  Por 
tugal,  Switzerland,  Denmark,  and  Greece.  Let  some 
greater  than  Napoleon  weld  them  into  one  mighty  em 
pire,  and  you  could  lay  it  all  down  west  of  the  Hud 
son  River  once  and  again  and  again — three  times." 

Of  the  states  and  territories  west  of  the  Mississippi, 
only  three  are  as  small  as  all  New  England.  Idaho, 
if  laid  down  in  the  East,  would  touch  Toronto,  Can 
ada,  on  the  north,  Raleigh,  N.  C,  on  the  south,  while 
its  southern  boundary  line  is  long  enough  to  stretch 
from  Washington  City  to  Columbus,  Ohio.  The  great 
est  measurement  of  Texas  is  nearly  equal  to  the 
distance  from  New  Orleans  to  Chicago,  or  from  Chi 
cago  to  Boston. 

Of  the  resources  of  the  country  the  half  has  not 
been  told.  We  have  hundreds  of  thousands  more 
square  miles  of  arable  land  than  China,  and  China 
supports  a  population  of  360,000,000.  Transfer  all 
of  the  people  of  the  United  States  to  the  one  State  of 
Texas,  and  the  population  thus  concentrated  would  not 
be  much  denser,  if  any,  than  the  population  of  Ger 
many  to-day.  Who  shall  estimate  aright  the  value  of 
American  fields  and  forests,  mines  and  mountains, 
lakes  and  rivers — nature's  highways — orchards  and 
gardens,  flocks  and  herds,  and  her  broad  prairie  with 
their  miles  and  miles  of  waving  harvests  undulating 
like  ocean  billows? 

Providence  hid  this  fair  land  from  the  old  world 
for  many  centuries.  It  was  to  be  "  the  cradle  of  an 
illustrious  history."  True,  the  mound  builders  were 


SPIRIT  AND  SIGNIFICANCE  35 

here,  but  they  left  mounds,  not  molding  influences. 
The  Indians  were  here ;  they  left  only  arrow-heads  and 
musical  names  for  our  lakes,  rivers,  and  mountains. 
The  Northmen  came  about  the  year  1,000;  they  left 
only  a  foot-print.  The  tide  of  European  emigration 
was  not  permitted  to  follow  the  Northmen.  Well  it 
was  for  humanity  that  the  Divine  Hand  kept  that  tide 
back,  for  then  was  the  midnight  of  the  dark  ages. 
"  Sometimes  the  bells  in  the  church  steeples  were  not 
heard,  for  the  sound  of  trumpets  and  drums."  Co 
lumbus  embarked  in  1492,  but  his  ships  carried  Spanish 
influences.  The  great  navigators  followed  the  birds 
of  the  air  in  their  flight.  The  God  of  Nations  made 
those  birds  pilots  to  guide  Spanish  ships  away  from 
these  shores.  Spain  gave  form  to  Mexico  and  South 
America. 

God  works  with  two  hands.  While  He  was  hiding 
this  rich  land,  He  was  shaping  the  men  who  should 
shape  its  institutions.  Before  He  gave  America  to  the 
world,  He  gave  the  translated  Bible  and  the  printing 
press  to  Europe ;  English,  Scotch,  Scotch-Irish,  Dutch, 
French,  and  other  illustrious  emigrants  of  like  type 
were  the  "  Creators  of  Moral  America."  They  were 
seventeenth  century  men.  Into  that  superb  century 
were  providentially  poured  the  influences  of  previous 
centuries.  For  hundreds  of  years  Europe  was  at 
school,  learning  statecraft  and  religion.  By  the 
translation  of  the  Bible,  "  the  lowly  English  roof  was 
lifted  to  take  in  heights  beyond  the  stars."  It  was 
from  underneath  that  roof  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  came 
to  Plymouth  Rock.  The  Indian's  salutation  was,  not 
"  Welcome,  Spaniard,"  but  "  Welcome,  Englishman," 


36  MEMORIAL  DAY 

which,  being  interpreted,  signified,  although  the  dusky 
savage  did  not  understand  it,  "  Welcome,  the  open 
Bible  and  love  of  equal  rights."  Yes,  the  Monument 
is  reared  on  American  soil,  and  America,  vast  in  ex 
tent,  rich  in  resources  and  possibilities,  was  provi 
dentially  reserved  for  freemen  and  freedom's  temple. 

Firm  upon  its  granite  pedestal  stands  yonder  shapely 
shaft.  For  us  it  shall  symbolize,  by  its  graceful 
strength,  the  American  Republic,  stable  and  healthful 
among  the  nations  of  the  earth.  That  group  of  war 
riors  in  bronze  represent  no  holiday  soldiers.  They 
stand  for  heroes  in  flesh  and  blood — for  stern  vet 
erans  whose  fortitude  and  valor  protected  the  Com 
monwealth.  They  recall  those  years  when  a  shot  fired 
at  the  old  flag  aroused  the  anger  of  a  great  people. 
Who  can  describe  those  historic  years? 

The  heavens  were  suddenly  black.  Fierce  eagles  of 
war  flew  across  the  lurid  clouds.  The  awful  storm 
rolled  thunders  along  the  sky.  Reverberating,  they 
shook  the  Atlantic  coast  and  the  banks  of  the  Mis 
sissippi.  They  crashed  over  Antietam,  Vicksburg,  and 
Gettysburg.  Forked  lightnings  played  among  the 
clouds  around  Lookout  Mountain.  Fire  ran  along  upon 
the  ground  in  Tennessee,  and  in  Virginia  swamps 
and  rivers  were  turned  to  blood.  It  was  the  Nation's 
midnight.  The  death  angel  was  abroad  with  un 
sheathed  sword.  There  was  a  great  cry  in  the  land, 
for  there  was  not  a  house  among  half  a  million  where 
there  was  not  one  dead.  Four  years  the  storm  raged. 
The  iron  hail  rattled  incessantly,  prostrating  armed 
men,  and  crushing  woman's  tender  heart.  It  was  a 
deluge  of  blood.  Then  muttering  thunders  ceased; 


SPIRIT  AND  SIGNIFICANCE  37 

the  clouds  broke  away,  and  out  of  the  blue  sky  a  dove 
came,  and  lo !  in  her  mouth  was  an  olive  leaf.  More 
than  a  quarter  of  a  century  has  passed.  Peace  still 
abides.  "  Over  the  cannon's  mouth  the  spider  weaves 
his  web."  But  while  mighty  people  are  busied  with 
great  enterprises,  they  do  not  forget — cannot  forget — 
the  brave  men  who  purchased  peace  by  their  valor 
and  blood. 

We  recall  with  gratitude  profound  and  peculiarly 
tender,  the  private  soldier  and  sailor.  Men  praise 
the  brave  commanders,  and  they  do  well;  but  what 
could  generals  have  accomplished  without  the  heroes 
in  the  ranks?  With  swift  zeal  the  rank  and  file — a 
great  host — sprang  to  arms.  They  gathered  from  near 
and  far.  "  The  earth  trembled  under  their  tread  like 
a  floor  beaten  with  flails."  "  All  the  avenues  of  our 
great  cities  ran  with  rivers  of  burnished  steel."  We 
can  hear  again  their  measured  tramp,  tramp,  tramp, 
and  their  lusty  song,  "  We  are  coming,  Father  Abra 
ham,  three  hundred  thousand  more."  Hark!  Vet 
erans,  hear  ye  not  again  your  comrades  singing  around 
the  flickering  fires  which  lighted  up  their  noble  faces, 
"  We  are  tenting  to-night  on  the  old  camp-ground." 
Listen !  Hear  again  the  battle  hymn  of  the  Republic, 
how  it  echoes  down  the  corridors  of  the  years,  and  will 
echo  until  time  is  no  more : 

He   has   sounded    forth   the   trumpet   that   shall   never   call 

retreat ; 
He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  His  judgment 

seat. 

Oh!  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him!  be  jubilant,  my  feet: 
Our  God  is  marching  on. 


38  MEMORIAL  DAY 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the  sea, 
With  a  glory  in  His  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me; 
As  He  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men  free, 
While   God   is    marching   on. 

When  the  war  began  thousands  of  young  men,  the 
flower  of  American  youth,  were  looking  out  of  col 
lege  halls  upon  a  future  bright  with  professional  hon 
ors.  They  flung  books  aside  and  seized  rifles.  They 
became  "  History's  Graduates."  Hundreds  of  thou 
sands  of  young  Americans  were  anticipating  a  future 
replete  with  the  profits  and  emoluments  which  reward 
business  genius  and  integrity.  Straightway  they  aban 
doned  cherished  life  plans  in  order  to  defend  free  insti 
tutions. 

Did  the  officer  love  his  home?  With  an  equal  ten 
derness  the  private  soldier  loved  his.  He  knew,  should 
a  bullet  prostrate  him,  it  would  shatter  the  strong 
staff  upon  which  the  aged  father  had  hoped  to  lean  in 
his  declining  years.  It  gave  him  a  heart-break  to  see 
his  mother's  pale  face  and  quivering  lip  as  he  kissed 
her  good-by,  holding  in  one  arm  his  rifle,  and  with 
the  other  tenderly  embracing  her  trembling  form. 
There  were  "  tears  in  his  voice  "  when  he  said  fare 
well,  perhaps  a  final  farewell,  to  the  fair  friend  with 
whom  he  had  hoped  to  stand  at  the  marriage  altar. 
Thousands  of  husbands  and  fathers  realized  that  their 
enlistment  might  leave  wives  widowed,  and  little  chil 
dren  fatherless.  When  the  private  soldier  rushed  into 
the  battle's  fire  and  smoke,  he  knew  that,  after  vic 
tories  were  won,  the  names  of  officers  would  be  her 
alded  over  the  land ;  but  should  he  fall,  the  type  would 
print  after  his  name  only  one  word — "  missing,"  or 


SPIRIT  AND  SIGNIFICANCE  39 

"  wounded,"  or  "  dead."  And  when  that  one  dread 
word  should  be  read  in  the  distant  Northern  home, 
loved  faces  would  "  grow  white  instantly,  as  if 
sprinkled  with  the  dust  of  ashes  by  an  unseen  hand." 
Yet  for  the  old  banner  the  soldier  made  the  sacrifice. 
As  a  lonely  vidette  he  kept  faithful  watch  in  the  dark 
ness,  while  death  lurked  near,  "  with  foot  of  velvet 
and  hand  of  steel."  He  helped  drag  heavy  cannon 
through  deep  mud;  he  trudged  weary  miles  on  forced 
marches,  and  endeavored  to  sleep,  when  hungry  and 
cold,  on  the  wet  ground.  Or  he  tossed  on  a  hospital 
cot  with  a  "  band  of  pain  around  his  brow."  And 
now,  we  twine  a  laurel  wreath  for  that  brow.  Thou 
sands  of  those  brave  men  fell,  not  knowing  what  would 
be  the  result  of  the  conflict.  Other  thousands  were 
permitted  to  return  and  enjoy  for  a  period  the  bless 
ings  they  purchased  for  their  countrymen.  Then  they, 
too,  fell  by  the  wayside,  weary  with  the  march  of  life. 
They  fought  for  freedom,  not  for  fame,  yet  honor 
claims  them  as  her  own : 

"  On  Fame's  eternal  camping  ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 
And   glory  guards   with    solemn   round 
The  bivouac  of  the  dead." 

Who  can  estimate  the  value  of  their  splendid 
services?  The  Union  Army  demonstrated  the  stabil 
ity  of  representative  government.  In  the  estimation 
of  Europe  the  American  Republic  was  an  experiment. 
Would  it  go  to  pieces  by  the  earthquake  shock  of  civil 
war  ?  Jealous  kings  said  "  Yes,"  but  when  the  red 
lips  of  Grant's  cannon  thundered  "  No !  "  thrones 


40  MEMORIAL  DAY 

trembled.  Should  a  government  of  and  for  and  by 
the  people  perish  from  the  earth? 

The  army  demonstrated  the  solidity  of  the  Nation's 
credit.  At  one  period  the  war  expenses  aggregated 
$2,000,000  a  day,  but  victories  inspired  confidence,  and 
many  of  the  soldiers  poured  their  own  silver  and  gold 
into  the  coffers  of  the  Nation  to  sustain  the  govern 
ment. 

Soldiers  of  the  Union,  what  shall  a  grateful  people 
render  you  in  return  for  your  priceless  services? 
Surely  the  government  should  care  for  the  aged  and 
the  crippled  veteran.  A  wealthy  nation  should  not 
permit  a  soldier's  deserving  widow  or  orphan  to  suf 
fer  want.  But  we  are  confident  that  your  sentiments 
are  voiced  by  this  declaration.  The  return  for  their 
services  which  veterans  desire  is  a  determination  on 
the  part  of  their  fellow-citizens  to  protect  faithfully 
the  free  institutions  the  Grand  Army  fought  to  pre 
serve. 

Underneath  yonder  polished  pillar  is  a  granite  die 
inscribed  with  patriotic  sentences.  For  us  that  let 
tered  die  shall  symbolize  popular  education,  which  sus 
tains  the  Republic.  Books  are  better  than  bayonets. 
Giant  truths  are  mightier  than  giant  powder.  The 
strongest  fortresses  are  school-houses.  The  mightiest 
standing  army  in  the  world  is  the  great  host  of  Amer 
ican  school-children.  The  seal  of  the  Board  of  Edu 
cation  in  this  city  is  a  pictured  pen  lying  across  a 
broken  sword.  The  pen  is  mightier  than  the  sword. 
The  pens  of  Adams,  Jefferson,  Franklin,  and  Hamil 
ton  broke  the  sword  of  tyranny  in  1776.  The  pens  of 
Webster,  Sumner,  Phillips,  Garrison,  Beecher,  Seward, 


SPIRIT  AND  SIGNIFICANCE  41 

and  Lincoln  broke  the  swords  of  secession  and  slavery. 
The  men  in  bronze  find  firm  footing  on  yonder  let 
tered  block  of  granite.  They  carry  thinking  weapons. 
No  man  "  scoops  out  the  brains  "  of  the  American 
civilian  or  soldier.  He  has  the  Bible,  and  thinks  for 
himself.  He  has  the  ballot,  and  governs  himself.  The 
only  scepter  to  which  he  bows  is  the  scepter  of  truth. 

This  is  a  nation  of  readers — a  nation  of  sovereigns. 
"  We  live  under  a  government  of  men  and  morning 
newspapers.  The  talk  of  the  sidewalk  to-day  is  the 
law  of  the  land  to-morrow."  Who  shapes  public 
thought  is  the  uncrowned  king.  His  pen  is  his  scepter. 
Public  schools  and  newspapers  are  the  people's  uni 
versity.  When  Louis  Napoleon  was  in  this  country  he 
expressed  surprise  because  he  saw  a  farmer  reading  a 
newspaper.  Germany  has  about  5,500  newspapers, 
Great  Britain  about  5,000.  France  about  2,000,  Italy 
about  1,400,  Asia — exclusive  of  Japan — about  850, 
Russia  about  800,  and  the  United  States  more  than 
15,000.  The  enemy  of  the  American  public  school 
system  is  the  enemy  of  the  Commonwealth.  If  you 
would  realize  how  unstable  governments  are  without 
public  schools,  read  the  history  of  Mexico  and  of 
South  America.  Taught  by  costly  experience,  they 
have  now  introduced  public  education. 

Thousands  of  the  youth  in  our  public  schools  come 
from  homes  where  they  learn  little  or  nothing  about  the 
history  and  the  spirit  of  American  institutions.  Let 
the  public  schools  teach  them  that  history,  and  inspire 
them  with  that  spirit.  Teach  the  public  school  youth, 
that  it  is  a  high  honor  to  be  able  to  say,  "  I  am  an 
American  citizen."  Let  them  hear  the  shot  which  the 


42  MEMORIAL  DAY 

embattled  farmers  fired  at  Lexington — "  the  shot  that 
was  heard  around  the  world."  Let  them  catch  the 
peals  of  the  old  Liberty  bell  and  the  spirit  of  Inde 
pendence  Day.  Let  them  hear  the  nightwatchman  in 
Philadelphia  calling  out :  "  Ten  o'clock  and  Cornwallis 
taken."  Let  them  hear  Washington's  soldiers  singing 
on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson :  "  No  King  but  God." 
Let  them  hear  again  and  again  the  shining  story  of  the 
valor  and  the  victories  of  the  men  who,  uniformed  in 
Heaven's  livery,  fought  with  Hooker,  Hancock,  Mead, 
Thomas,  Foote,  Farragut,  Kilpatrick,  with  the  chival 
rous  Kitching,  and  Fremont,  the  free-hearted.  Teach 
them  that  when  they  arrive  at  manhood's  estate,  they 
should  never  absent  themselves  from  the  polls,  pre 
ferring  private  gain  to  the  welfare  of  city,  state,  or 
nation.  Let  them  always  vote — and  vote  for  principle. 

Underneath  yonder  carved  die  are  four  massive 
granite  blocks,  a  solid  base,  on  which  the  stable  struc 
ture  rests,  as  the  American  Republic  rests  secure  upon 
the  solid  foundations  of  a  true  Christianity.  Palsied 
be  the  vandal  hands  which  would  attempt  to  remove 
those  tons  of  granite,  and  substitute  as  a  base  rotten 
timber.  Palsied  be  the  hands  which  would  attempt 
to  remove  the  Bible,  the  Sabbath,  the  Church,  and  the 
Christian  home,  and  substitute,  as  a  foundation  for 
our  Republic,  infidelity,  anarchy,  and  the  rotten  saloon ! 

Gladstone,  the  illustrious  Englishman,  said  to  an 
eminent  American :  "  Talk  about  questions  of  the  day, 
there  is  but  one  question,  and  that  is  the  Gospel.  It 
can  and  will  correct  everything  needing  correction. 
All  men  at  the  head  of  great  movements  are  Christian 
men.  During  the  many  years  I  was  in  the  Cabinet  I 


SPIRIT  AND  SIGNIFICANCE  43 

was  brought  into  association  with  sixty  master  minds, 
and  all  but  five  of  them  were  Christians.  My  only 
hope  for  the  world  is  the  bringing  the  human  mind  into 
contact  with  Divine  revelation."  This  emphasizes  the 
teachings  of  American  patriots.  Above  all  the 
clamor  of  Castle  Garden  statesmen  we  hear  the  calm 
voices  of  the  fathers  and  preservers  of  the  Republic. 
One  of  these  patriotic  fathers,  who  was  a  member  of 
the  convention  assembled  to  draft  the  Constitution  of 
the  United  States,  when  moving  that  the  proceedings 
be  opened  with  prayer,  addressed  the  President  in 
these  memorable  words :  "  I  have  lived,  sir,  a  long  time, 
and  the  longer  I  live  the  more  convincing  proofs  I  see 
of  the  truth  that  God  governs  in  the  affairs  of  men; 
and  if  a  sparrow  cannot  fall  to  the  ground  without  His 
notice,  is  it  probable  that  an  empire  can  rise  without 
His  aid?" 

To  a  trusted  friend  who  visited  him  during  the  dark 
days  of  the  Civil  War,  President  Lincoln  said,  with 
emotion :  "  I  do  not  doubt,  I  never  doubted  for  a  mo 
ment,  that  our  country  would  finally  come  through 
safe  and  undivided.  But  do  not  misunderstand  me. 
I  do  not  know  how  it  can  be.  I  do  not  rely  on  the 
patriotism  of  our  people,  though  no  people  have  rallied 
around  their  king  as  ours  have  rallied  around  me.  I 
do  not  trust  in  the  bravery  and  devotion  of  the  boys 
in  blue.  God  bless  them !  God  never  gave  a  prince 
or  a  conqueror  such  an  army  as  He  has  given  me. 
Nor  yet  do  I  rely  on  the  loyalty  and  skill  of  our  gen 
erals,  though  I  believe  we  have  the  best  generals  in 
the  world  at  the  head  of  our  armies.  But  the  God  of 
our  fathers,  who  raised  up  this  country  to  be  a  refuge 


44  MEMORIAL  DAY 

and  the  asylum  of  the  oppressed  and  down-trodden  of 
all  nations,  will  not  let  it  perish  now.  I  may  not  live 
to  see  it," — and  he  added,  after  a  pause — "  I  do  not 
expect  to  see  it,  but  God  will  bring  us  through  safe." 

What  a  noble  company  of  our  youthful  citizens  is 
assembled  here  on  this  broad  platform.  That  in  com 
ing  years,  as  they  pass  and  repass  the  Monument, 
they  may  be  reminded  of  the  truths  here  spoken, 
permit  me  to  address  them  a  few  words.  Young 
Americans,  when  you  have  reached  mature  years,  and 
our  lips  are  dust,  the  children  of  the  future  will  look 
at  yonder  graceful  granite,  and  will  ask,  "  What  mean 
these  stones  ?  "  You  will  tell  them  how  you  saw  with 
your  own  eyes  the  soldiers  of  the  Union  represented 
by  those  stern  bronze  warriors.  You  will  speak  of 
successive  Memorial  Days,  when  you  saw  veteran  sol 
diers  embroider  with  fragrant  flowers  the  mounds 
made  sacred  by  the  dust  of  their  comrades.  You  will 
not  forget  to  strew  flowers  upon  their  graves.  You 
will  interpret  for  the  future  generations  the  message 
of  those  voiceful  stones. 

That  you  may  the  more  distinctly  remember  their 
message,  we  would  have  you  see  on  the  gray  granite 
four  shining  gold  letters.  On  the  solid  base,  which 
symbolizes  the  foundation  of  our  Republic,  a  true 
Christianity,  we  would  have  you  see  the  letter  F, 
standing  for  Faith  in  God.  On  the  lettered  die,  which 
symbolizes  a  solid  education,  we  would  have  you  see 
the  letter  L,  standing  for  Learning.  As  the  polished 
shaft,  by  its  massive  strength  and  grace,  symbolizes  the 
Republic,  stable  and  beautiful  among  the  nations,  we 
would  have  you  see  affixed  to  it  the  letter  A,  standing 


SPIRIT  AND  SIGNIFICANCE  45 

for  America.  And  as  our  flag  is  always  associated 
with  renown,  we  would  have  you  see  on  that  granite 
standard  the  gold  letter  G,  reflecting  the  rays  of  the 
morning,  and  standing  for  Glory.  Remember  to  tell 
the  children  of  the  future  that  those  memorial  stones 
symbolize  Faith,  Learning,  America,  and  Glory.  It 
will  not  be  difficult  for  you  to  remember  this  message, 
and  to  bear  it  to  the  future,  because  those  initial  gold 
letters  spell  the  word  FLAG. 

Soldiers  of  the  Union,  I  have  now  discharged  the 
duty  you  assigned  me.  We  bring  you  gratitude,  and 
congratulations — gratitude  for  arduous  and  illustrious 
services ;  congratulations  that  a  kind  Providence  merci 
fully  spared  your  lives  for  some  good  purpose.  A 
thousand  fell  at  your  side,  and  ten  thousand  at  your 
right  hand,  but  He  covered  you  with  His  feathers. 
Through  the  iron  hailstones  He  brought  you  safe  to 
greet  your  loved  ones,  to  receive  the  plaudits  of  your 
fellow-citizens,  and  to  enjoy  the  prosperity  of  the 
Commonwealth.  Each  of  your  wears  the  honored 
title,  "  A  Soldier  of  the  Union."  Soon  you  will  be 
gathered  to  your  fathers.  Yonder  memorial  will  per 
petuate  your  honor. 

Surely  we  voice  your  sentiments  when  we  proclaim 
that  the  granite  Standard-Bearer  represents  no  citizen 
who  defends  organized  wrong.  He  represents  neither 
infidel  nor  anarchist.  Nor  does  he  stand  for  the 
citizen  who  fails  to  distinguish  between  license  to 
do  wrong,  and  liberty  to  do  right — the  only  true  lib 
erty.  He  does  not  represent  the  citizen  who  with  one 
hand  holds  up  the  flag,  and  with  the  other  hand  tears 
its  pure  folds  to  tatters  by  defending  a  traffic  which 


46  MEMORIAL  DAY 

shatters  the  hearth-stone,  smites  the  smile  from  the 
happy  face  of  a  sweet  child,  and  murders  the  soul 
for  which  the  Son  of  God  shed  His  blood.  But  yon 
der  Standard-Bearer  does  represent,  in  his  massive 
strength,  the  loyal  American  who  stands  firm  for  the 
Bible,  the  Sabbath,  the  Church,  the  Home;  for  Solid 
Learning,  for  Union  and  Freedom,  for  the  Main 
tenance  of  Private  and  Public  Credit,  and  for  Peace  on 
Earth.  His  sword  symbolizes  the  freeman's  weapons 
— the  pen,  the  pure  ballot,  and  the  keen  Damascus 
blade. 

So  long  as  the  bed-rock  principles  of  the  fathers  are 
maintained,  the  Republic  itself  will  continue  to  stand,  a 
monument  to  freedom,  stable  and  beautiful,  and  seen 
by  the  whole  world.  Because  he  realizes  this,  the 
American  citizen,  while  holding  his  Nation's  ensign 
in  defense  of  it,  and  of  the  granite  principles  of  which 
it  is  the  glorious  symbol,  lays  his  good  right  hand 
upon  the  hilt  of  his  sword. 

This,  sir,  as  we  interpret  it,  is  the  Monument's  Mes 
sage. 


COMRADES  KNOWN  IN  MARCHES  MANY 

BY  CHARLES  G.    HALPINE 

Comrades  known  in  marches  many, 
Comrades  tried  in  dangers  many, 
Comrades  bound  by  memories  many, 
Brothers  ever  let  us  be. 


SPIRIT  AND  SIGNIFICANCE  47 

Wounds  or  sickness  may  divide  us, 
Marching  orders  may  divide  us, 
But  whatever  fate  betide  us, 
Brothers  of  the  heart  are  we. 

Comrades  known  by  faith  the  clearest, 
Tried  when  death  was  near  and  nearest, 
Bound  we  are  by  ties  the  dearest, 

Brothers  evermore  to  be. 
And,  if  spared,  and  growing  older, 
Shoulder  still  in  line  with  shoulder, 
And  with  hearts  no  thrill  the  colder, 

Brothers  ever  we  shall  be. 

By  communion  of  the  banner, — 
Crimson,  white,  and  starry  banner, — - 
By  the  baptism  of  the  banner, 

Children  of  one  Church  are  we. 
Creed  nor  faction  can  divide  us, 
Race  nor  language  can  divide  us ; 
Still,  whatever  fate  betide  us, 

Children  of  the  Flag  are  we. 


THE  LEGACY  OF  CONFLICT 

BY  THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 

The  captains  and  the  armies  who,  after  long  years 
of  dreary  campaigning  and  bloody,  stubborn  fighting, 
brought  to  a  close  the  Civil  War,  have  left  us  even 


48  MEMORIAL  DAY 

more  than  a  reunited  realm.  The  material  effect  of 
what  they  did  is  shown  in  the  fact  that  the  same  flag 
flies  from  the  Great  Lakes  to  the  Rio  Grande,  and  all 
the  people  of  the  United  States  are  richer  because  they 
are  one  people  and  not  many,  because  they  belong  to 
one  great  nation,  and  not  to  a  contemptible  knot  of 
struggling  nationalities. 

But  besides  this,  besides  the  material  results  of  the 
Civil  War,  we  are  all,  North  and  South,  incalculably 
richer  for  its  memories.  We  are  the  richer  for  each 
grim  campaign,  for  each  hard-fought  battle.  We  are 
the  richer  for  valor  displayed  alike  by  those  who 
fought  so  valiantly  for  the  right,  and  by  those  who,  no 
less  valiantly,  fought  for  what  they  deemed  the  right. 
We  have  in  us  nobler  capacities  for  what  is  great  and 
good  because  of  the  infinite  woe  and  suffering,  and  be 
cause  of  the  splendid  ultimate  triumph. 


DECORATION  DAY 

BY   E.    P.    THWING 

"  Wave  the  flag  once  more  before  my  eyes !  "  said 
a  dying  color-bearer  as  he  found  himself  sinking  into 
the  last  sleep.  "  The  dear  old  flag  never  touched  the 
ground,"  said  another  soldier  sinking  on  the  ramparts 
of  Wagner.  To  them  the  starry  folds  of  the  bunting 
they  bore  were  an  emblem  of  an  undivided  country,  a 
symbol  of  glory  and  honor  dearer  to  them  than  life  it 
self.  Such  is  the  inspiring  influence  of  intelligent, 


SPIRIT  AND  SIGNIFICANCE  49 

heroic  loyalty.  It  is  far  nobler  than  mere  physical 
hardihood,  purer  than  the  selfish  sentiment  of  personal 
friendship,  and  therefore  a  more  enduring  and  trans 
forming  power.  Keep,  then,  the  flag  of  the  nation 
waving  before  our  eyes;  in  other  words,  make  con 
spicuous  the  principles  of  which  it  is  the  emblazonry, 
fealty  to  truth,  to  honor,  to  liberty  and  law.  Let  par 
tisan  zeal  and  mere  personal  aggrandizement  be  forgot 
ten  in  the  pursuit  of  the  highest  aims.  Let  the  spirit 
of  Abraham  Lincoln  be  ours,  who,  in  1858 — standing 
at  Alton,  where  Love  joy  had  fallen  a  martyr  to  free 
dom — said,  "  Think  nothing  of  me ;  take  no  thought 
for  the  political  fate  of  any  man  whatsoever,  but  come 
back  to  the  truths  that  are  in  the  Declaration  of  Inde 
pendence.  You  may  do  anything  with  me  you  choose, 
if  you  will  but  heed  these  sacred  principles.  You  may 
not  only  defeat  me  for  the  Senate,  but  you  may  take 
me  and  put  me  to  death!  I  am  nothing.  Judge  Doug 
las  is  nothing;  but  do  not  destroy  that  immortal  em 
blem  of  humanity — the  Declaration  of  Independence." 

It  is  with  prophetic  ken  when,  at  Philadelphia,  he  re 
asserts  his  fealty  to  this  same  supreme  law:  "If  this 
country  cannot  be  saved  without  giving  up  that  prin 
ciple,  I  was  about  to  say  I  would  be  assassinated  on  the 
spot!"  Then  he  repeated  again  his  calm,  serious,  in 
telligent  consecration  to  the  cause  of  Liberty  and 
Union  in  these  closing  words :  "  I  have  said  nothing 
but  what  I  am  willing  to  live  by,  and,  if  it  be  the 
pleasure  of  the  Almighty  God,  to  die  by!" 

That  was  heroism,  lofty,  sublime,  godlike  heroism. 
It  was  grander  far  than  the  heroism  of  the  battlefield, 
where  mere  brutal  courage  plays  an  important  part ; 


50  MEMORIAL  DAY. 

where  revenge  is  sometimes  fired  by  pain  and  sight  of 
blood;  where  there  is  the  wild  enthusiasm  of  numbers 
massed  under  the  lead  of  magnetic  men;  where  there 
are  thrilling  battle-songs  poured  forth  from  bearded 
lips,  joined  with  clang  of  cymbals,  blare  of  trumpets, 
beat  of  drum ;  and  where,  amid  booming  cannon,  ring 
ing  saber,  and  rattling  shell,  the  soldier  forgets  fatigue, 
pain,  even  life  itself,  in  the  delirium  of  the  hour.  This 
defiance  of  death  is  heroic;  this  valor,  audacity,  and 
gallantry,  worthy  of  praise;  but  it  ranks  lower  than 
this  serene  quietude  of  soul  that  is  born  of  humble, 
holy  faith,  which  sustains  one  without  these  added  sup 
ports. 

Our  hero-dead  are  lying  in  a  thousand  burial-places 
from  Maine  to  Louisiana.  Peace  reigns.  But  is  there 
not  still  an  unended  contest  of  ideas?  Are  not  the 
great  tutelar  forces  of  a  Christian  civilization  in 
earnest  conflict  with  hostile  influences  ?  Have  we  been 
wholly  victorious  over  partisan  hatred,  the  prejudice 
of  caste,  of  color,  and  of  clan?  Can  any  party  show 
a  wholly  clean  record?  Its  leaders  a  purely  disinter 
ested  and  patriotic  purpose?  Are  there  no  ominous 
tendencies  at  work  in  the  rapid  growth  of  our  material 
wealth  and  in  the  importation  of  alien  and  destructive 
elements  ? 

We  have  scattered  our  floral  tributes  to-day  over 
the  graves  of  the  patriotic  dead.  These  frail  me 
mentos  of  affection  will  soon  wither,  but  let  not  the 
memory  of  these  martyrs  fail  to  inspire  in  us  a 
purer,  holier  life!  The  roll-call  brings  to  mind  their 
faces  and  their  deeds.  They  were  faithful  to  the  end. 
The  weary  march,  the  bivouac,  the  battle  are  still  re- 


SPIRIT  AND  SIGNIFICANCE  51 

membered  by  the  survivors.  But  your  line,  comrades, 
is  growing  slenderer  every  year.  One  by  one  you  will 
drop  out  of  the  ranks,  and  other  hands  may  ere  long 
strew  your  grave  with  flowers  as  you  have  done  to-day 
in  yonder  cemetery.  When  mustered  in  the  last  grand 
review,  with  all  the  veterans  and  heroes  of  earth,  may 
each  receive  with  jubilant  heart  the  Great  Com 
mander's  admiring  tribute  "  Well  done !  "  and  become 
with  Him  partaker  of  a  felicity  that  is  enduring  and 
triumphant ! 


ODE  FOR  DECORATION  DAY 

BY   THEODORE    P.    COOK 

They  sleep  so  calm  and  stately, 
Each  in  his  graveyard  bed, 

It  scarcely  seems  that  lately 
They  trod  the  fields  blood-red, 
With  fearless  tread. 

They  marched  and  never  halted, 
They  scaled  the  parapet, 

The  triple  lines  assaulted, 
And  paid  without  regret 
The  final  debt. 

The  debt  of  slow  accruing 
A  guilty  nation  made, 

The  debt  of  evil-doing, 
Of  justice  long  delayed, — 
'Twas  this  they  paid. 


52  MEMORIAL  DAY 

On  fields  where  Strife  held  riot, 
And  Slaughter  fed  his  hounds, 

Where  came  no  sense  of  quiet, 
Nor  any  gentle  sounds, 
They  made  their  rounds. 

They  wrought  without  repining, 
Till,  weary  watches  o'er, 

They  passed  the  bounds  confining 
Our  green,  familiar  shore, 
Forevermore. 

And  now  they  sleep  so  stately, 
Each  in  his  graveyard  bed, 

So  calmly  and  sedately 
They  rest,  that  once  I  said : 
"  These  men  are  dead. 

'  They  know  not  what  sweet  duty 
We  come  each  year  to  pay, 

Nor  heed  the  blooms  of  beauty, 
The  garland  gifts  of  May, 
Strewn  here  to-day. 

''  The  night-time  and  the  day-time, 
The  rise  and  set  of  sun, 

The  winter  and  the  May-time, 
To  them  whose  work  is  done, 
Are  all  as  one." 

Then  o'er  mine  eyes  there  floated 
A  vision  of  the  Land 


SPIRIT  AND  SIGNIFICANCE  53 

Where  their  brave  souls,  promoted 
To  heaven's  own  armies,  stand 
At  God's  right  hand. 

From  out  the  mighty  distance 

I  seemed  to  see  them  gaze 
Back  on  their  old  existence, 

Back  on  the  battle-blaze 
Of  war's  dread  days. 

"  The  flowers  shall  fade  and  perish," 

In  larger  faith  spake  I, 
"  But  these  dear  names  we  cherish 

Are  written  in  the  sky, 
And  cannot  die." 


THE  NATION'S  DEAD 

BY    HENRY   WATTERSON 

From  an  Address  delivered  at  the  National  Cemetery, 
Nashville,  Tenn.,  Decoration  Day, 


We  are  assembled,  my  countrymen,  to  commemorate 
the  patriotism  and  valor  of  the  brave  men  who  died 
to  save  the  Union.  The  season  brings  its  tribute  to 
the  scene;  pays  its  homage  to  the  dead;  inspires  the 
living.  There  are  images  of  tranquillity  all  about  us  ; 
in  the  calm  sunshine  upon  the  ridges  ;  in  the  tender 
shadows  that  creep  along  the  streams;  in  the  waving 


54  MEMORIAL  DAY 

grass  and  grain  that  mark  God's  love  and  bounty;  in 
the  flowers  that  bloom  over  the  many  many  graves. 
There  is  peace  everywhere  in  this  land  to-day. 

"  Peace  on  the  open  seas, 
In  all  our  sheltered  bays  and  ample  streams, 
Peace  where'er  our  starry  banner  gleams, 

And  peace  in  every  breeze." 

The  war  is  over.  It  is  for  us  to  bury  its  passions 
with  its  dead ;  to  bury  them  beneath  a  monument  raised 
by  the  American  people  to  American  manhood  and  the 
American  system,  in  order  that  "  the  nation  shall,  un 
der  God,  have  a  new  birth  of  freedom,  and  that  the 
government  of  the  people,  by  the  people,  and  for  the 
people,  shall  not  perish  from  the  earth." 

The  Union  is  indeed  restored,  when  the  hands  that 
pulled  that  flag  down  come  willingly  and  lovingly  to 
put  it  up  again.  I  come  with  a  full  heart  and  a  steady 
hand  to  salute  the  flag  that  floats  above  me — my  flag 
and  your  flag — the  flag  of  the  Union — the  flag  of  the 
free  heart's  hope  and  home — the  star-spangled  banner 
of  our  fathers — the  flag  that,  uplifted  triumphantly 
over  a  few  brave  men,  has  never  been  obscured, 
destined  by  the  God  of  the  universe  to  waft  on  its 
ample  folds  the  eternal  song  of  freedom  to  all  man 
kind,  emblem  of  the  power  on  earth  which  is  to  ex 
ceed  that  on  which  it  was  said  the  sun  never  went 
down. 

The  hundred  of  thousands  who  fell  on  both  sides 
did  not  die  in  vain.  The  power,  the  divine  power, 
which  made  for  us  a  garden  of  swords,  sowing  the  land 
broadcast  with  sorrow,  will  reap  thence  for  us,  and 


SPIRIT  AND  SIGNIFICANCE  55 

for  the  ages,  a  nation  truly  divine;  a  nation  of  free 
dom  and  of  free  men ;  where  tolerance  shall  walk  hand 
in  hand  with  religion,  while  civilization  points  out  to 
patriotism  the  many  open  highways  to  human  right 
and  glory. 


THE  GRAVES  OF  OUR  DEAD 

BY  ROBERT  G.   INGERSOLL 

As  we  cover  the  graves  of  the  heroic  dead  with 
flowers,  the  past  rises  before  us  like  a  dream.  Again 
we  are  in  the  great  struggle.  We  hear  the  sounds  of 
preparation — the  music  of  the  boisterous  drums — 
the  silver  voices  of  heroic  bugles.  We  hear  the  ap 
peals  of  orators;  we  see  the  pale  cheeks  of  women, 
and  the  flushed  faces  of  men ;  we  see  all  the  dead 
whose  dust  we  have  covered  with  flowers.  We 
lose  sight  of  them  no  more.  We  are  with  them  when 
they  enlist  in  the  great  army  of  freedom.  We  see 
them  apart  from  those  they  love. 

We  see  them  as  they  inarch  proudly  away,  under 
the  flaunting  flags,  keeping  time  to  the  wild  music  of 
war — marching  down  the  streets  of  the  great  cities, 
through  the  towns,  and  across  the  prairies,  to  do  and 
to  die  for  the  eternal  right.  We  go  with  them,  one 
and  all.  We  are  by  their  side  on  all  the  gory  fields, 
in  all  the  hospitals  of  pain,  on  all  the  weary  marches. 
We  stand  guard  with  them  in  the  wild  storm  and  un 
der  the  quiet  stars.  We  see  them  pierced  with  balls 
and  torn  with  shells,  in  the  trenches  by  the  forts,  and 


56  MEMORIAL  DAY 

in  the  whirlwind  of  the  charge,  where  men  become 
iron  with  nerves  of  steel.  We  are  at  home  when  the 
news  reaches  us  that  they  are  dead.  We  see  the 
maiden  in  the  shadow  of  her  first  sorrow.  We  see  the 
silvered  head  of  the  old  man  bowed  with  the  last 
grief. 

Those  heroes  are  dead.  They  sleep  under  the  sol 
emn  pines,  the  sad  hemlocks,  the  tearful  willows,  and 
the  embracing  vines.  They  sleep  beneath  the  shadows 
of  the  clouds,  careless  alike  of  sunshine  or  of  storm, 
each  in  the  windowless  place  of  rest.  Earth  may  run 
red  with  other  wars — they  are  at  peace.  In  the  midst 
of  battle,  in  the  roar  of  the  conflict,  they  found  the 
serenity  of  death.  I  have  one  sentiment  for  the  sol 
diers,  living  and  dead — cheers  for  the  living,  tears  for 
the  dead. 


"  BELLIGERENT  NON-COMBATANTS  " 

BY  WILLIAM  TECUMSEH  SHERMAN 

From    Decoration    Day   Address,   New    York,    May 
30,  1878 

It  is  related  of  General  Scott  that  when  asked,  in 
1861,  the  probable  length  of  the  then  Civil  War,  he 
answered,  "  The  conflict  of  arms  will  last  five  years ; 
but  will  be  followed  by  twenty  years  of  angry  strife, 
by  the  '  belligerent  non-combatants.' ' 

Wars  are  usually  made  by  civilians,  bold  and  de 
fiant  in  the  forum;  but  when  the  storm  comes,  they 


SPIRIT  AND  SIGNIFICANCE  57 

go  below,  and  leave  their  innocent  comrades  to  catch 
the  "  peltings  of  the  pitiless  storm."  Of  the  half- 
million  of  brave  fellows  whose  graves  have  this  day 
been  strewn  with  flowers,  not  one  in  a  thousand  had 
the  remotest  connection  with  the  causes  of  the  war 
which  led  to  their  untimely  death.  I  now  hope  and 
beg  that  all  good  men,  North  and  South,  will  unite  in 
real  earnest  to  repair  the  mistakes  and  wrongs  of  the 
past ;  will  persevere  in  the  common  effort  to  make  this 
great  land  of  ours  to  blossom  as  the  garden  of  Eden ! 
I  invoke  all  to  heed  well  the  lessons  of  this  "  Decora 
tion  Day,"  to  weave  each  year  a  fresh  garland  for  the 
grave  of  some  beloved  comrade  or  hero,  and  to  rebuke 
any  and  all  who  talk  of  civil  war,  save  as  the  "  last 
dread  tribunal  of  kings  and  peoples." 


DECORATION  DAY1 

BY   THOMAS    BAILEY    ALDRICH 

From  Ponkapog  Papers 

How  quickly  Nature  takes  possession  of  a  deserted 
battlefield  and  goes  to  work  repairing  the  ravages  of 
man!  With  invisible  magic  hand  she  smooths  the 
rough  earthworks,  fills  the  riflepits  with  delicate 
flowers,  and  wraps  the  splintered  tree-trunks  with  her 
fluent  drapery  of  tendrils.  Soon  the  whole  sharp  out 
line  of  the  spot  is  lost  in  unremembering  grass.  Where 

1  By  permission  of  the  publishers,  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 


58  MEMORIAL  DAY 

the  deadly  rifle-ball  whistled  through  the  foliage,  the 
robin  or  the  thrush  pipes  its  tremulous  note;  and 
where  the  menacing  shell  described  its  curve  through 
the  air,  a  harmless  crow  flies  in  circles.  Season  after 
season  the  gentle  work  goes  on,  healing  the  wounds 
and  rents  made  by  the  merciless  enginery  of  war,  un 
til  at  last  the  once  hotly  contested  battle-ground  differs 
from  none  of  its  quiet  surroundings,  except,  perhaps, 
that  here  the  flowers  take  a  richer  tint  and  the  grasses 
a  deeper  emerald. 

It  is  thus  the  battle  lines  may  be  obliterated  by  Time, 
but  there  are  left  other  and  more  lasting  relics  of  the 
struggle.  That  dinted  army  saber,  with  a  bit  of 
faded  crepe  knotted  at  its  hilt,  which  hangs  over  the 
mantelpiece  of  the  "  best  room  "  of  many  a  town  and 
country  house  in  these  States,  is  one;  and  the  graven 
headstone  of  the  fallen  hero  is  another.  The  old 
swords  will  be  treasured  and  handed  down  from  gen 
eration  to  generation  as  priceless  heirlooms,  and  with 
them,  let  us  trust,  will  be  cherished  the  custom  of 
dressing  with  annual  flowers  the  resting-place  of  those 
who  fell  during  the  Civil  War. 

"  With  the  tears  a  land  hath  shed 
Their  graves  should  ever  be  green. 

"Ever  their  fair,  true  glory 

Fondly   should    fame   rehearse, — 
Light  of  legend  and  story, 
Flower  of  marble  and  verse." 

The  impulse  which  led  us  to  set  apart  a  day  for  dec 
orating  the  graves  of  our  soldiers  sprang  from  the 


SPIRIT  AND  SIGNIFICANCE  59 

grieved  heart  of  the  Nation,  and  in  our  time  there 
is  little  chance  of  the  rite  being  neglected.  But  the 
generations  that  come  after  us  should  not  allow  the 
observance  to  fall  into  disuse.  What  with  us  is  an 
expression  of  fresh  love  and  sorrow  should  be  with 
them  an  acknowledgment  of  an  incalculable  debt. 

Decoration  Day  is  the  most  beautiful  of  our  na 
tional  holidays.  How  different  from  those  sullen  bat 
teries  which  used  to  go  rumbling  through  our  streets 
are  the  crowds  of  light  carriages,  laden  with  flowers 
and  greenery,  wending  their  way  to  the  neighboring 
cemeteries!  The  grim  cannon  have  turned  into  palm 
branches,  and  the  shell  and  shrapnel  into  peach  blooms. 
There  is  no  hint  of  war  in  these  gay  baggage  trains, 
except  the  presence  of  men  in  undress  uniforms,  and 
perhaps  here  and  there  an  empty  sleeve  to  remind 
one  of  what  has  been.  Year  by  year  that  empty  sleeve 
is  less  in  evidence. 

The  observance  of  Decoration  Day  is  unmarked  by 
that  disorder  and  confusion  common  enough  with  our 
people  in  their  holiday  moods.  The  earlier  sorrow 
has  faded  out  of  the  hour,  leaving  a  softened  solem 
nity.  It  quickly  ceased  to  be  simply  a  local  commemora 
tion.  While  the  sequestered  country  churchyards  and 
burial-places  near  our  great  Northern  cities  were  being 
hung  with  May  garlands,  the  thought  could  not  but 
come  to  us  that  there  were  graves  lying  southward  , 
above  which  bent  a  grief  as  tender  and  sacred  as  our 
own.  Invisibly  we  dropped  unseen  flowers  upon  these 
mounds.  There  is  a  beautiful  significance  in  the  fact 
that,  two  years  after  the  close  of  the  war,  the  women 
of  Columbus,  Mississippi,  laid  their  offerings  alike  on 


60  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Northern  and  Southern  graves.     When  all  is  said,  the 
great  Nation  has  but  one  heart. 


DECORATION  DAY  ADDRESS 

ANONYMOUS 

Blessed  are  the  dead  whose  memory  is  perpetuated 
by  the  flower  service  of  a  grateful  people.  How 
truly  immortal  are  those  who  give  their  lives  for  lib 
erty.  To  have  lived  long,  purposeless,  neutral  years, 
1  is  nothing — to  have  lived  a  few  glorious  hours,  to  have 
bravely  faced  the  infinite,  to  have  calmly  met  the 
Master  in  humanity's  cause,  is  sublime.  Why  mourn 
these  dead  of  ours?  They  sleep  in  the  bosom  of  the 
land  they  loved.  Here  where  the  ground  once  shook 
beneath  the  tramp  of  contending  hosts  they  are  at 
rest.  The  sentinels  no  longer  patrol  the  banks  of  the 
Potomac.  Grant  and  Lee  both  lived  to  attest  the 
goodness  of  a  God  who  preserved  the  Union.  And 
over  the  river,  on  the  beauteous  dome  of  the  nation's 
Capitol,  serenely  uplifted  toward  the  ethereal  blue, 
kissed  by  the  sun  of  day,  wooed  by  the  stars  of  night, 
tranquilly  floats  the  unconquered  flag  of  the  greatest 
nation  of  the  earth. 

Why  mourn  for  those  who  slumber  here?  Their 
epitaphs  are  written  in  the  grandest  history  of  the 
ages.  Before  them  will  reverently  pass  the  procession 
of  the  centuries.  And  every  headstone  roundabout, 
even  those  without  a  name,  will  be  given  honor- 


SPIRIT  AND  SIGNIFICANCE  61 

able  place  in  the  mighty  monument  that  is  to  com 
memorate  the  ennobling  and  uplifting  of  the  human 
race. 

It  is  a  day  of  memories,  a  day  when  we  meet  in  the 
hallowed  past  and  hold  communion  with  our  holy 
dead.  A  day  when  we  recall  the  glorious  aspirations 
which  thrilled  men's  souls  in  that  heroic  time,  when 
to  love  one's  country  was  to  lay  down  one's  life ;  a  day 
filled  with  that  same  spirit  of  freedom,  patriotism, 
and  devotion  which  breathed  into  the  common  dust  of 
ordinary  humanity  the  sublime  inspiration  of  heroic 
deeds ;  a  day  when  we  rekindle  the  fires  of  patriotism 
on  the  altar  of  our  liberties  and  once  again  renew  the 
loyal  vows  that  these  our  noble  dead  in  the  years  gone 
by  consecrated  with  their  hearts'  blood. 

Glorious  are  the  dead  who  die  for  liberty.  Blessed 
are  they  whose  blood  is  shed  for  the  welfare  of  their 
fellowmen.  The  great  conflict  in  which  our  dead 
fought  was,  in  the  beginning,  a  contest  between  men, 
between  sections.  It  was  the  Union  against  the  con 
federacy.  But  it  is  evident  that  over  and  above  the 
purposes  of  men  was  God's  purpose.  He  would  not 
permit  the  government  of  the  United  States  to  remain 
under  a  Constitution  that  sanctioned  human  slavery. 
He  would  not  give  victory  to  the  Union  arms  until 
with  it  would  come  liberty  to  a  race  in  chains.  The 
careful  student  of  the  war  of  the  rebellion  has  no  dif 
ficulty  in  seeing  that  up  to  the  time  of  the  emancipa 
tion  proclamation  the  doubtful  tide  of  battle  set  most 
strongly  against  the  Union  shore.  Disaster  had  fol 
lowed  disaster  until  Lincoln  himself  almost  despaired 
of  ultimate  victory;  until  it  seemed  as  if  the  exulting 


62  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Southern  hosts  were  about  to  make  good  their  boast  of 
proclaiming  the  confederate  government  from  the 
steps  of  the  nation's  Capitol.  But  from  the  hour  of 
emancipation,  from  the  hour  in  which  the  cause  of  the 
Union  became  the  cause  of  liberty,  from  the  hour  in 
which  the  flag  of  the  republic  became  the  flag  of 
humanity,  from  the  hour  in  which  its  stars  and  stripes 
no  longer  floated  over  a  slave ;  yea,  from  the  sacred 
hour  of  the  nation's  new  birth  that  dear  old  banner 
never  faded  from  the  sky,  and  the  brave  boys  who 
bore  it  never  wavered  in  their  onward  march  to  vic 
tory.  With  the  single  exception  of  Chancellorsville, 
and  that  stubborn  doubtful  day  at  Chickamauga,  no 
decisive  field  of  battle  was  ever  lost  by  the  men  who 
sang  with  redoubled  enthusiasm  "  John  Brown's  body 
lies  moldering  in  the  grave,  but  his  soul  goes  march 
ing  on."  Gettysburg  at  the  east,  Vicksburg  at  the 
west,  ratified  the  President's  action  and  woke  the 
morning  of  our  national  holiday  with  a  grand  jubilee 
of  joy.  From  Chattanooga  to  Appomattox,  from  At 
lanta  to  the  sea,  the  hearts  of  the  war-worn,  battle- 
scarred  veterans  took  new  courage;  all  along  the  line 
they  touched  elbows  with  a  steadier  purpose,  saw  in 
each  other's  eyes  a  holier  fire,  joined  with  a  new  in 
spiration  in  that  glorious  anthem,  "  Mine  eyes  have 
seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord." 

I  believe  our  service  should  be  a  love  service  of 
prayer  and  praise  and  song,  that  out  of  the  heroic 
memories  of  the  past  we  should  draw  new  inspirations 
of  patriotism  and  find  new  ardor  for  the  preservation 
of  the  free  institutions  which  came  to  us  through  the 
baptism  of  fire  and  blood.  But,  for  the  first  time  in 


SPIRIT  AND  SIGNIFICANCE  63 

our  history  on  Decoration  Day,  we  are  at  war.  Once 
more  upon  the  soil  of  old  Virginia  the  federal  bayonets 
are  agleam.  From  day  to  day  the  boys  in  blue  pass 
by ;  the  reveille,  the  bugle  call  is  heard  even  in  this  city 
of  the  silent  dead.  This  time,  thank  God,  the  war  is 
not  sectional.  There  are  no  brothers  arrayed  against 
brothers ;  no  Americans  against  Americans.  There  is 
only  one  uniform  in  all  the  land,  one  flag  in  all  the  sky, 
one  sentiment  in  the  breasts  of  all  the  heroes  of  the  re 
public. 

To-day  I  see  the  surviving  veterans  of  the  old  Grand 
Army  of  the  Republic,  grizzled  and  gray,  some  with 
empty  sleeves,  some  stumping  their  way  on  wooden 
pegs ;  and  I  remember  that  in  the  years  gone  by  these 
old  veterans  were  boys;  boys  who  left  the  plow,  the 
forge,  the  loom,  the  shop,  the  office,  the  college,  the 
sanctuary,  to  fight  the  battles  of  their  country.  They 
too  broke  the  clasp  of  loving  arms  to  go;  they  too 
left  good-by  kisses  on  tiny  lips ;  they  too  had  mothers, 
wives,  sisters,  sweethearts ;  they  too  turned  from  home 
and  comfort  and  peace  to  follow  the  flag.  God  bless 
them,  living  and  dead.  May  there  be  cheers  for  the 
living  as  long  as  the  last  survivor  blesses  the  earth, 
may  there  be  tears  for  the  dead  to  the  end  of  time. 

"  Soldier,  rest,  thy  warfare  o'er, 
Dream  of  fighting  fields  no  more. 
Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking, 
Morn  of  toil  or  night  of  waking." 

Yes !  rest  in  peace,  oh,  mighty  dead.  The  cause  for 
which  you  fought  can  never  be  assailed  again.  Rest 
in  peace,  the  race  whose  freedom  you  achieved  will 


64  MEMORIAL  DAY 

bless  you  with  their  latest  breath.  Rest  in  peace,  the 
Union  you  preserved  remains  forever,  and  liberty, 
equal  rights,  and  justice  is  .the  heritage  of  your 
descendants  to  the  judgment  day.  God  bless  the  men 
who  followed  the  flag! 


Ill 
THE  WAR 


BROTHER  JONATHAN'S  LAMENT  FOR  SIS 
TER  CAROLINE 

BY   OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES 

Written  in   December,    1860,    when   South    Carolina 
adopted  the  Ordinance  of  Secession 

She  has  gone, — she  had  left  us  in  passion  and  pride, — 
Our  stormy-browed  sister,  so  long  at  our  side ! 
She  has  torn  her  own  star  from  our  firmament's  glow, 
And  turned  on  her  brother  the  face  of  a  foe ! 

O  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 
We  can  never  forget  that  our  hearts  have  been  one, — 
Our  foreheads  both  sprinkled  in  Liberty's  name, 
From  the  fountain  of  blood  with  the  finger  of  flame! 

You  were  always  too  ready  to  fire  at  a  touch ; 

But  we  said :  "  She's  a  beauty, — she  does  not  mean 

much." 
We  have  scowled  when  you  uttered  some  turbulent 

threat ; 
But  Friendship  still  whispered :  "  Forgive  and  forget." 

Has  our  love  all  died  out?     Have  its  altars  grown 

cold? 

Has  the  curse  come  at  last  which  the  fathers  foretold  ? 

67 


68  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Then  Nature  must  teach  us  the  strength  of  the  chain 
That  her  petulant  children  would  sever  in  vain. 

They  may  fight  till  the  buzzards  are  gorged  with  their 

spoil, 

Till  the  harvest  grows  black  as  it  rots  in  the  soil, 
Till  the  wolves  and  the  catamounts  troop  from  their 

caves, 
And  the  shark  tracks  the  pirate,  the  lord  of  the  waves : 

In  vain  is  the  strife!     When  its  fury  is  past, 
Their  fortunes  must  flow  in  one  channel  at  last, 
As  the  torrents  that  rush  from  the  mountains  of  snow 
Roll  mingled  in  peace  in  the  valleys  below. 

Our  Union  is  river,  lake,  ocean,  and  sky; 

Man  breaks  not  the  medal  when  God  cuts  the  die ! 

Though  darkened  with  sulphur,  though  cloven  with 

steel, 
The  blue  arch  will  brighten,  the  waters  will  heal ! 

O  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 
There  are  battles  with  fate  that  can  never  be  won ! 
The  star-flowering  banner  must  never  be  furled, 
For  its  blossoms  of  light  are  the  hope  of  the  world ! 

Go,  then,  our  rash  sister,  afar  and  aloof, — 

Run  wild  in  the  sunshine  away  from  our  roof ; 

But  when  your  heart  aches,  and  your  feet  have  grown 

sore, 
Remember  the  pathway  that  leads  to  our  door! 


THE  WAR  69 

DIXIE 

BY   ALBERT   PIKE 

Southrons,  hear  your  country  call  you! 
Up,  lest  worse  than  death  befall  you ! 
To  arms !     To  arms !     To  arms,  in  Dixie ! 
Lo !  all  the  beacon-fires  are  lighted, — 
Let  all  hearts  be  now  united ! 
To  arms!     To  arms!     To  arms,  in  Dixie! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie! 

Hurrah!  hurrah! 

For  Dixie's  land  we  take  our  stand, 
And  live  or  die  for  Dixie ! 
To  arms!     To  arms! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie ! 

To  arms  !     To  arms ! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie! 


Fear  no  danger!     Shun  no  labor! 
Lift  up  rifle,  pike,  and  saber! 
Shoulder  pressing  close  to  shoulder, 
Let  the  odds  make  each  heart  bolder! 

How  the  South's  great  heart  rejoices 
At  your  cannons'  ringing  voices! 
For  faith  betrayed,  and  pledges  broken, 
Wrongs  inflicted,  insults  spoken. 


70  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Strong  as  lions,  swift  as  eagles, 

Back  to  their  kennels  hunt  these  beagles ! 

Cut  the  unequal  bonds  asunder ! 

Let  them  hence  each  other  plunder ! 

Swear  upon  your  country's  altar 
Never  to  submit  or  falter, 
Till  the  spoilers  are  defeated, 
Till  the  Lord's  work  is  completed. 

Halt  not  till  our  Federation 
Secures  among  earth's  powers  its  station ! 
Then  at  peace,  and  crowned  with  glory, 
Hear  your  children  tell  the  story ! 

If  the  loved  ones  weep  in  sadness, 
Victory  soon  shall  bring  them  gladness, — 

To  arms ! 

Exultant  pride  soon  banish  sorrow, 
Smiles  chase  tears  away  to-morrow. 

To  arms!     To  arms!     To  arms,  in  Dixie! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie ! 

Hurrah!  hurrah! 

For  Dixie's  land  we  take  our  stand, 
And  live  or  die  for  Dixie ! 
To  arms!     To  arms! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie ! 

To  arms!     To  arms! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie ! 

(Southern.) 


THE  WAR  71 

FIRST  O  SONGS  FOR  A  PRELUDE 1 

BY    WALT    WHITMAN 

First  O  songs  for  a  prelude, 

Lightly  strike  on  the  stretch'd  tympanum  pride  and 
joy  in  my  city, 

How  she  led  the  rest  to  arms,  how  she  gave  the  cue, 

How  at  once  with  lithe  limbs  unwaiting  a  moment  she 
sprang, 

(O  superb!     O  Manhattan,  my  own,  my  peerless! 

O  strongest  you  in  the  hour  of  danger,  in  crisis!  O 
truer  than  steel!) 

How  you  sprang — how  you  threw  off  the  costumes 
of  peace  with  indifferent  hand, 

How  your  soft  opera-music  changed,  and  the  drum 
and  fife  were  heard  in  their  stead, 

How  you  led  to  the  war  (that  shall  serve  for  our  pre 
lude,  songs  of  soldiers), 

How  Manhattan  drum-taps  led. 

Forty  years  had  I  in  my  city  seen  soldiers  parading, 
Forty  years  as  a  pageant,  till  unawares  the  lady  of 

this  teeming  and  turbulent  city, 
Sleepless  amid  her  ships,  her  houses,  her  incalculable 

wealth, 

With  her  million  children  around  her,  suddenly, 
At  dead  of  night,  at  news  from  the  south, 
Incens'd  struck  with  clinch'd  hand  the  pavement. 

1  From   "  Selected   Poems."     Published   by   David   McKay, 
Philadelphia. 


72  MEMORIAL  DAY 

A  shock  electric,  the  night  sustain'd  it, 

Till  with  ominous  hum  our  hive  at  daybreak  pour'd  out 

its  myriads. 
From  the  houses  then  and  the  workshops,  and  through 

all  the  doorways, 
Leapt  they  tumultuous,  and  lo!  Manhattan  arming. 

To  the  drum-taps  prompt, 

The  young  men  falling  in  and  arming, 

The  mechanics  arming  (the  trowel,  the  jack-plane,  the 

blacksmith's  hammer,  tost  aside  with  precipita 
tion), 
The  lawyer  leaving  his  office  and  arming,  the  judge 

leaving  the  court, 
The  driver  deserting  his  wagon  in  the  street,  jumping 

down,  throwing  the  reins  abruptly  down  on  the 

horses'  backs, 
The  salesman  leaving  the  store,  the  boss,  book-keeper, 

porter,  all  leaving; 
Squads  gather  everywhere  by  common  consent  and 

arm, 
The  new  recruits,  even  boys,  the  old  men  show  them 

how  to  wear  their  accounterments,  they  buckle 

the  straps  carefully, 
Outdoors  arming,   indoors   arming,   the   flash  of  the 

musket-barrels, 
The  white  tents  cluster  in  camps,  and  arm'd  sentries 

around,  the  sunrise  cannon  and  again  at  sunset, 
Arm'd  regiments  arrive  every  day,  pass  through  the 

city,  and  embark  from  the  wharves, 
(How  good  they  look  as  they  tramp  down  to  the  river, 

sweaty,  with  their  guns  on  their  shoulders! 


THE  WAR  73 

How  I  love  them!  how  I  could  hug  them,  with  their 

brown   faces  and  their  clothes  and  knapsacks 

cover'd  with  dust!) 
The   blood   of   the   city   up — arm'd!   arm'd!   the   cry 

everywhere, 
The  flags  flung  out  from  the  steeples  of  churches  and 

from  all  the  public  buildings  and  stores, 
The  tearful  parting,  the  mother  kisses  her  son,  the  son 

kisses  his  mother, 
(Loth  is  the  mother  to  part,  yet  not  a  word  does  she 

speak  to  detain  him), 

The  tumultuous  escort,  the  ranks  of  policemen  preced 
ing,  clearing  the  way, 
The  unpent  enthusiasm,  the  wild  cheers  of  the  crowd 

for  their  favorites, 
The  artillery,  the  silent  cannons  bright  as  gold,  drawn 

along,  rumble  lightly  over  the  stones, 
(Silent  cannons,  soon  to  cease  your  silence, 
Soon  unlimber'd  to  begin  the  red  business)  ; 
All  the  mutter  of  preparation,  all  the  determin'd 

arming, 

The  hospital  service,  the  lint,  bandages,  and  medicines, 
The  women  volunteering  for  nurses,  the  work  begun 

for  in  earnest,  no  mere  parade  now  ; 
War!  an  arm'd  race  is  advancing!  the  welcome  for 

battle,  no  turning  away ; 
War !  be  it  weeks,  months,  or  years,  an  arm'd  race  is 

advancing  to  welcome  it. 


Mannahatta  a-march — and  it's  O  to  sing  it  well! 
It's  O  for  a  manly  life  in  the  camp. 


74  MEMORIAL  DAY 

And  the  sturdy  artillery, 

The  guns  bright  as  gold,  the  work  for  giants,  to  serve 

well  the  guns, 
Unlimber  them!  (no  more  as  the  past  forty  years  for 

salutes  for  courtesies  merely), 
Put  in  something  now  besides  powder  and  wadding. 

And  you,  lady  of  ships,  you  Mannahatta, 
Old  matron  of  this  proud,  friendly,  turbulent  city, 
Often  in  peace  and  wealth  you  were  pensive  or  cov 
ertly  frown'd  amid  all  your  children, 
But  now  you  smile  with  joy  exulting,  old  Mannahatta. 


MEN  OF  THE  NORTH 

BY  JOHN   NEAL 

Men  of  the  North,  look  up! 

There's  a  tumult  in  your  sky; 
A  troubled  glory  surging  out, 

Great  shadows  hurrying  by. 

Your  strength — where  is  it  now? 

Your  quivers — are  they  spent  ? 
Your  arrows  in  the  rust  of  death, 

Your  fathers'  bows  unbent? 

Men  of  the  North,  awake! 

Ye're  called  to  from  the  deep ; 
Trumpets  in  every  breeze — 

Yet  there  ye  lie  asleep. 


THE  WAR  75 

A  stir  in  every  tree; 

A  shout  from  every  wave ; 
A  challenging  on  every  side ; 

A  moan  from  every  grave: 

A  battle  in  the  sky; 

Ships  thundering  through  the  air — 
Jehovah  on  the  march — 

Men  of  the  North,  to  prayer! 

Now,  now — in  all  your  strength ; 

There's  that  before  your  way, 
Above,  about  you,  and  below, 

Like  armies  in  array. 

Lift  up  your  eyes,  and  see 

The  changes  overhead ; 
Now  hold  your  breath  and  hear 

The  mustering  of  the  dead. 

See  how  the  midnight  air 

With  bright  commotion  burns, 
Thronging  with  giant  shapes, 

Banner  and  spear  by  turns. 

The  sea-fog  driving  in, 

Solemnly  and  swift, 
The  moon  afraid — stars  dropping  out — 

The  very  skies  adrift; 

The  Everlasting  God, 

Our  Father — Lord  of  Love — 
With  cherubim  and  seraphim 

All  gathering  above ; 


76  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Their  stormy  plumage  lighted  up 
As  forth  to  war  they  go; 

The  shadow  of  the  Universe, 
Upon  our  haughty  foe ! 


THE  OATH  OF  FREEDOM 

BY  JAMES  BARRON  HOPE 

Born  free,  thus  we  resolve  to  live: 
By  Heaven,  we  will  be  free! 
By  all  the  stars  which  burn  on  high— 
By  the  green  earth — the  mighty  sea — 
By  God's  unshaken  majesty, 

We  will  be  free  or  die! 

Then  let  the  drums  all  roll! 

Let  all  the  trumpets  blow! 

Mind,   heart,   and   soul, 

We  spurn  control 

Attempted  by  a  foe! 

Born  free,  thus  we  resolve  to  live : 
By  Heaven,  we  will  be  free! 
And,  vainly  now  the  Northmen  try 
To  beat  us  down — in  arms  we  stand 
To  strike  for  this  our  native  land! 

We  will  be  free  or  die ! 

Then  let  the  drums  all  roll !  etc. 

Born  free,  thus  we  resolve  to  live : 
By  Heaven,  we  will  be  free! 


THE  WAR  77 

Our  wives  and  children  look  on  high, 
Pray  God  to  smile  upon  the  right! 
And  bid  us  in  the  deadly  fight 

As  freemen  live  or  die! 

Then  let  the  drums  all  roll !  etc. 

Born  free,  thus  we  resolve  to  live : 
By  Heaven,  we  will  be  free ! 
And  ere  we  cease  this  battle-cry, 
Be  all  our  blood,  our  kindred's  spilt, 
On  bayonet  or  saber  hilt! 

We  will  be  free  or  die ! 

Then  let  the  drums  all  roll !  etc. 

Born  free,  thus  we  resolve  to  live : 
By  Heaven,  we  will  be  free ! 
Defiant  let  the  banners  fly, 
Shake  out  their  glories  to  the  air, 
And  kneeling,  brothers,  let  us  swear 

We  will  be  free  or  die ! 

Then  let  the  drums  all  roll !  etc. 

Born  free,  thus  we  resolve  to  live : 
By  Heaven,  we  will  be  free ! 
And  to  this  oath  the  dead  reply — 
Our  valiant  fathers'  sacred  ghosts — 
These  with  us,  and  the  God  of  hosts, 

We  will  be  free  or  die ! 

Then  let  the  drums  all  roll !  etc. 

(Southern.) 


78  MEMORIAL  DAY 

BEAT!  BEAT!  DRUMS!1 

BY  WALT  WHITMAN 

Beat !  beat !  drums ! — blow !  bugles !  blow ! 

Through  the  windows — through  doors — burst  like  a 

ruthless  force, 

Into  the  solemn  church,  and  scatter  the  congregation, 
Into  the  school  where  the  scholar  is  studying; 
Leave  not  the  bridegroom  quiets-no  happiness  must 

he  have  now  with  his  bride, 
Nor  the  peaceful  farmer  any  peace,  plowing  his  field 

or  gathering  his  grain, 
So  fierce  you  whirr  and  pound  you  drums — so  shrill 

you  bugles  blow. 

Beat !  beat !  drums ! — blow !  bugles !  blow ! 

Over  the  traffic  of  cities — over  the  rumble  of  wheels 
in  the  streets ; 

Are  beds  prepared  for  sleepers  at  night  in  the  houses? 
no  sleepers  must  sleep  in  those  beds, 

No  bargainers'  bargains  by  day — no  brokers  or  spec 
ulators — would  they  continue? 

Would  the  talkers  be  talking?  would  the  singer  at 
tempt  to  sing? 

Would  the  lawyer  rise  in  the  court  to  state  his  case 
before  the  judge? 

Then  rattle  quicker,  heavier  drums — you  bugles  wilder 
blow. 

1  From  "  Selected  Poems.'1     Published  by  David  McKay. 


THE  WAR  79 

Beat !  beat !  drums  ! — blow  !  bugles !  blow ! 

Make  no  parley — stop  for  no  expostulation, 

Mind  not  the  timid — mind  not  the  weeper  or  prayer, 

Mind  not  the  old  man  beseeching  the  young  man, 

Let  not  the  child's  voice  be  heard,  nor  the  mother's 

entreaties, 
Make  even  the  trestles  to  shake  the  dead  where  they 

lie  awaiting  the  hearses, 
So  strong  you  thump  O  terrible  drums — so  loud  you 

bugles  blow. 


WAR 

BY    SAM    WALTER    FOSS 

I  am  War.     The  upturned  eyeballs  of  piled  dead  men 

greet  my  eye, 
And  the  sons  of  mothers  perish — and  I  laugh  to  see 

them  die, —  • 

Mine  the  demon  lust  for  torture,  mine  the  devil  lust 

for  pain, 
And  there  is  to  me  no  beauty  like  the  pale  brows  of 

the  slain ! 
But  my  voice  calls  forth  the  godlike  from  the  sluggish 

souls  at  ease, 
And  the  hands  that  toyed  with  ledgers  scatter  thunders 

'round  the  seas; 
And  the  lolling  idler,  wakening,  measures  up  to  God's 

own  plan, 
And  the  puling  tiifler  greatens  to  the  stature  of  a  man. 


8o  MEMORIAL  DAY 

When  I  speak,  the  centuried  towers  of  old  cities  melt 

in  smoke, 
And  the  fortressed  ports  sink  reeling  at  my  far-aimed 

thunder-stroke ; 
And  an  immemorial  empire  flings  its  last  flag  to  the 

breeze, 
Sinking  with  its  splintered  navies  down  in  the  un- 

pitying  seas. 

But  the  blind  of  sight  awaken  to  an  unimagined  day, 
And  the  mean  of  soul  grow  conscious  there  is  great 
ness  in  their  clay ; 
Where  my  bugle  voice  goes  pealing  slaves  grow  heroes 

at  its  breath, 
And  the  trembling  coward  rushes  to  the  welcome  arms 

of  death. 

Pagan,  heathen,  and  inhuman,  devilish  as  the  heart  of 
hell; 

Wild  as  chaos,  strong  for  ruin,  clothed  in  hate  un 
speakable, — 

So  they  call  me, — and  I  care  not, — still  I  work  my 
waste  afar, 

Heeding  not  your  weeping  mothers  and  your  widows 
-I  am  War! 

But  your  soft-boned  men  grow  heroes  when  my  flam 
ing  eyes  they  see, 

And  I  teach  your  little  people  how  supremely  great 
they  be; 

Yea,  I  tell  them  of  the  wideness  of  the  soul's  unfolded 
plan 

And  the  godlike  stuff  that's  molded  in  the  making  of 
a  man. 


THE  WAR  81 

Ah,  the  godlike  stuff  that's  molded  in  the  making  of 

a  man! 
It  has  stood  my  iron  testing  since  this  strong  old  world 

began. 
Tell  me  not  that  men  are  weaklings,  halting  tremblers, 

pale  and  slow, — 
There  is  stuff  to  shame  the  seraphs  in  the  race  of  men 

— I  know. 
I  have  tested  them  by  fire,  and  I  know  that  man  is 

great, 
And  the  soul  of  man  is  stronger  than  is  either  death 

or  fate; 
And  where'er  my  bugle  calls  them,  under  any  sun  or 

star, 
They  will  leap  with  smiling  faces  to  the  fire  test  of 

war. 


THE   BRAVE  AT   HOME1 

BY   THOMAS    BUCHANAN   READ 

The  maid  who  binds  her  warrior's  sash 

With  smile  that  well  her  pain  dissembles, 
The  while  beneath  her  drooping  lash 

One  starry  tear-drop  hangs  and  trembles, 
Though  Heaven  alone  records  the  tear, 

And  Fame  shall  never  know  her  story, 
Her  heart  has  shed  a  drop  as  dear 

As  e'er  bedewed  the  field  of  glory! 

1  By  permission  of  the  publishers,  J.  P.  Lip pine ott  &  Co., 
Philadelphia. 


82  MEMORIAL  DAY 

The  wife  who  girds  her  husband's  sword, 

Mid  little  ones  who  weep  or  wonder, 
And  bravely  speaks  the  cheering  word, 

What  though  her  heart  be  rent  asunder, 
Doomed  nightly  in  her  dreams  to  hear 

The  bolts  of  death  around  him  rattle, 
Hath  shed  as  sacred  blood  as  e'er 

Was  poured  upon  the  field  of  battle ! 

The  mother  who  conceals  her  grief 

While  to  her  breast  her  son  she  presses, 
Then  breathes  a  few  brave  words  and  brief, 

Kissing  the  patriot  brow  she  blesses, 
With  no  one  but  her  secret  God 

To  know  the  pain  that  weighs  upon  her, 
Sheds  holy  blood  as  e'er  the  sod 

Received  on  Freedom's  field  of  honor! 


THE  NINETEENTH  OF  APRIL 1 
1861 

BY   LUCY  LARCOM 

This  year,  till  late  in  April,  the  snow  fell  thick  and 

light: 
Thy  truce-flag,  friendly  Nature,  in  clinging  drifts  of 

white, 

lBy  permission  of  the  publishers,  Houghton,  Mifttin  &  Co. 


THE  WAR  83 

Hung  over  field  and  city :  now  everywhere  is  seen, 
In  place  of  that  white  quietness,  a  sudden  glow  of 
green. 

The  verdure  climbs  the  Common,  beneath  the  leafless 
trees, 

To  where  the  glorious  Stars  and  Stripes  are  floating 
on  the  breeze. 

There,  suddenly  as  spring  awoke  from  winter's  snow- 
draped  gloom, 

The  Passion-Flower  of  Seventy-Six  is  bursting  into 
bloom. 

Dear  is  the  time  of  roses,  when  earth  to  joy  is  wed, 
And  garden-plot  and  meadow  wear  one  generous  flush 

of  red; 

But  now  in  dearer  beauty,  to  her  ancient  colors  true, 
Blooms  the  old  town  of  Boston  in  red  and  white  and 

blue. 

Along  the  whole  awakening  North  are  those  bright  em 
blems  spread  ; 

A  summer  noon  of  patriotism  is  burning  overhead : 

No  party  badges  flaunting  now,  no  word  of  clique  or 
clan ; 

But  "  Up  for  God  and  Union !  "  is  the  shout  of  every 
man. 

Oh,   peace   is   dear   to   Northern   hearts;   our   hard- 
earned  homes  more  dear; 
But  Freedom  is  beyond  the  price  of  any  earthly  cheer; 


84  MEMORIAL  DAY 

And  Freedom's  flag  is  sacred;  he  who  would  work  it 

harm, 
Let  him,  although  a  brother,  beware  our  strong  right 

arm! 

Ah  brother !  ah,  the  sorrow,  the  anguish  of  that  word ! 
The   fratricidal   strife   begun,   when   will   its   end   be 

heard? 
Not  this  the  boon  that  patriot  hearts  have  prayed  and 

waited  for; — 
We  loved  them,  and  we  longed  for  peace:  but  they 

would  have  it  war. 

Yes;  war!  on  this  memorial  day,  the  day  of  Lex 
ington, 

A  lightning-thrill  along  the  wires  from  heart  to  heart 
has  run. 

Brave  men  we  gazed  on  yesterday,  to-day  for  us  have 
bled; 

Again  is  Massachusetts  blood  the  first  for  Freedom 
shed. 

To  war, — and  with  our  brethren  then, — if  only  this 

can  be! 

Life  hangs  as  nothing  in  the  scale  against  dear  Liberty ! 
Though  hearts  be  torn  asunder,  for  Freedom  we  will 

fight: 
Our  blood  may  seal  the  victory,  but  God  will  shield 

the  Right ! 


THE  WAR  85 

MANASSAS 
July  21,  1861 

BY    CATHERINE    M.    WARFIELD 

They   have  met  at  last — as   storm-clouds 

Meet  in  heaven, 
And  the  Northmen  back  and  bleeding 

Have  been  driven : 

And  their  thunders  have  been  stilled, 
And  their  leaders  crushed  or  killed, 
And  their  ranks  with  terror  thrilled, 

Rent  and  riven ! 

Like  the  leaves  of  Vallombrosa 

They  are  lying; 
In  the  moonlight,  in  the  midnight, 

Dead  and  dying; 

Like  those  leaves  before  the  gale, 
Swept  their  legion,  wild  and  pale  ; 
While  the  host  that  made  them  quail 

Stood,  defying. 

When  aloft  in  morning  sunlight 

Flags  were  flaunted, 
And  "  swift  vengeance  on  the  rebel  " 

Proudly  vaunted; 
Little  did  they  think  that  night 
Should  close  upon  their  shameful  flight, 
And  rebels,  victors  in  the  fight, 

Stand  undaunted. 


86  MEMORIAL  DAY 

But  peace  to  those  who  perished 

In  our  passes! 
Light  be  the  earth  above  them ; 

Green  the  grasses! 
Long  shall  Northmen  rue  the  day 
When  they  met  our  stern  array, 
And  shrunk  from  battle's  wild  affray 

At  Manassas. 
(Southern.) 


THE  COUNTERSIGN 

BY   A   CONFEDERATE   SOLDIER 

Alas !  the  weary  hours  pass  slow, 

The  night  is  very  dark  and  still; 
And  in  the  marshes  far  below 

I  hear  the  bearded  whippoorwill ; 
I  scarce  can  see  a  yard  ahead, 

My  ears  are  strained  to  catch  each  sound; 
I  hear  the  leaves  about  me  shed, 

And  the  spring's  bubbling  through  the  ground. 

Along  the  beaten  path  I  pace, 

Where  white  rays  mark  my  sentry's  track; 
In  formless  shrubs  I  seem  to  trace 

The  foeman's  form  with  bending  back, 
I  think  I  see  him  crouching  low  ; 

I  stop  and  list — I  stoop  and  peer, 
Until  the  neighboring  hillocks  grow 

To  groups  of  soldiers  far  and  near. 


THE  WAR  87 

With  ready  piece  I   wait  and  watch, 

Until  my  eyes,  familiar  grown, 
Detect  each  harmless  earthen  notch, 

And  turn  guerrillas  into  stone ; 
And  then,  amid  the  lonely  gloom, 

Beneath  the  tall  old  chestnut  trees, 
My  silent  marches  I  resume, 

And  think  of  other  times  than  these. 

Sweet  visions  through  the  silent  night ! 

The  deep  bay  windows  fringed  with  vine, 
The  room  within,  in  softened  light, 

The  tender,  milk-white  hand  in  mine; 
The  timid  pressure,  and  the  pause 

That  often  overcame  our  speech — 
The  time  when  by  mysterious  laws 

We  each  felt  all  in  all  to  each. 

And  then  that  bitter,  bitter  day, 

When  came  the  final  hour  to  part  ; 
When,  clad  in  soldier's  honest  gray, 

I  pressed  her  weeping  to  my  heart; 
Too  proud  of  me  to  bid  me  stay, 

Too  fond  of  me  to  let  me  go, 
I  had  to  tear  myself  away, 

And  left  her,  stolid  in  my  woe. 

So  rose  the  dream,  so  passed  the  night — 
When,  distant  in  the  darksome  glen, 

Approaching  up  the  somber  height 
I  heard  the  solid  march  of  men ; 

Till  over  stubble,  over  sward, 

And  fields  where  lay  the  golden  sheaf, 


88  MEMORIAL  DAY 

I  saw  the  lantern  of  the  guard 
Advancing  with  the  night  relief. 

"Halt!   Who  goes  there?"  my   challenge   cry, 

It  rings  along  the  watchful  line; 
"  Relief !  "  I  hear  a  voice  reply ; 

"  Advance,  and  give  the  countersign !  " 
With  bayonet  at  the  charge  I  wait — 

The  corporal  gives  the  mystic  spell ; 
With  arms  aport  I  charge  my  mate, 

Then  onward  pass,  and  all  is  well. 

But  in  the  tent  that  night  awake, 

I  ask,  if  in  the  fray  I  fall, 
Can  I  the  mystic  answer  make 

When  the  angelic  sentries  call  ? 
And  pray  that  Heaven  may  so  ordain, 

Whene'er  I  go,  what  fate  be  mine, 
Whether  in  pleasure  or  in  pain, 

I  still  may  have  the  countersign. 

(Southern.) 


TRAMP,  TRAMP,  TRAMP 

BY  GEORGE  F.  ROOT 

In  the  prison  cell  I  sit, 

Thinking,  mother  dear,  of  you, 
And  our  bright  and  happy  home  so  far  away, 

And  the  tears  they  fill  my  eyes, 

Spite  of  all  that  I  can  do, 
Though  I  try  to  cheer  my  comrades  and  be  gay. 


THE  WAR  89 

Chorus. 

Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  the  boys  are  marching, 
Oh,  cheer  up,  comrades,  they  will  come. 

And  beneath  the  starry  flag  we  shall  breathe  the  air 

again, 
Of  freedom  in  our  own  beloved  home. 

In  the  battle  front  we  stood 

When  the  fiercest  charge  they  made, 
And  they  swept  us  off  a  hundred  men  or  more, 

But  before  we  reached  their  lines 

They  were  beaten  back  dismayed, 
And  we  heard  the  cry  of  vict'ry  o'er  and  o'er. 

Cho. 
So,  within  the  prison  cell 

We  are  waiting  for  the  day 
That  shall  come  to  open  wide  the  iron  door, 

And  the  hollow  eye  grows  bright, 

And  the  poor  heart  almost  gay, 

As  we  think  of  seeing  friends  and  home  once  more. 

Cho. 


KEARNY  AT  SEVEN  PINES  1 

BY   EDMUND   CLARENCE   STEDMAN 

So  that  soldierly  legend  is  still  on  its  journey, — 
That  story  of  Kearny  who  knew  not  to  yield ! 

Twas  the  day  when  with  Jameson,  fierce  Berry,  and 

Birney, 
Against  twenty  thousand  he  rallied  the  field. 

1  By  permission  of  the  publishers,  Houghton,  MiMin  &  Co. 


90  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Where  the  red  volleys  poured,  where  the  clamor  rose 

highest, 
Where  the  dead  lay  in  clumps  through  the  dwarf 

oak  and  pine, 
Where    the    aim    from   the    thicket    was    surest    and 

nighest, — 
No  charge  like  Phil  Kearny's  along  the  whole  line. 

When  the  battle  went  ill,  and  the  bravest  were  solemn, 
Near  the  dark  Seven  Pines,  where  we  still  held  our 

ground, 
He  rode  down  the  length  of  the  withering  column, 

And  his  heart  at  our  war-cry  leapt  up  with  a  bound ; 
He  snuffed,  like  his  charger,  the  wind  of  the  powder, — 
His  sword  waved  us  on  and  we  answered  the  sign : 
Loud  our  cheer  as  we  rushed,  but  his  laugh  rang  the 

louder, 

"  There's  the  devil's  own  fun,  boys,  along  the  whole 
line!" 


How  he  strode  his  brown  steed!     How  we  saw  his 

blade  brighten 

In  the  one  hand  still  left, — and  the  reins  in  his  teeth ! 
He  laughed  like  a  boy  when  the  holidays  heighten, 

But  a  soldier's  glance  shot  from  his  visor  beneath. 
Up  came  the  reserves  to  the  mellay  infernal, 

Asking  where   to  go  in, — through   the  clearing  or 

pine? 
"  O,      anywhere !     Forward !     Tis      all      the      same, 

Colonel : 
You'll  find  lovely  fighting  along  the  whole  line !  " 


THE  WAR  91 

O,  evil  the  black  shroud  of  night  at  Chantilly, 

That  hid  him  from  sight  of  his  brave  men  and  tried ! 
Foul,  foul  sped  the  bullet  that  clipped  the  white  lily, 

The  flower  of  our  knighthood,  the  whole  army's 

pride ! 
Yet  we  dream  that  he  still, — in  that  shadowy  region 

Where  the  dead  form  their  ranks  at  the  wan  drum 
mer's  sign, — 
Rides  on,  as  of  old,  down  the  length  of  his  legion, 

And  the  word  still  is  Forward !  along  the  whole  line. 


THE  DEATH  OF  SLAVERY 

BY  WILLIAM   CULLEN  BRYANT 

O  thou  great  Wrong,  that,  through  the   slow-paced 

years, 

Didst  hold  thy  millions  fettered,  and  didst  wield 
The  scourge  that  drove  the  laborer  to  the  field, 
And  turn  a  stony  gaze  on  human  tears, 
Thy  cruel  reign  is  o'er ; 
Thy  bondmen  crouch  no  more 
In  terror  at  the  menace  of  thine  eye  ; 

For  He  who  marks  the  bounds  of  guilty  power, 
Long-suffering,  hath  heard  the  captive's  cry, 

And  touched  his  shackles  at  the  appointed  hour, 
And  lo !  they  fall,  and  he  whose  limbs  they  galled 
Stands  in  his  native  manhood,  disenthralled. 


92  MEMORIAL  DAY 

A  shout  of  joy  from  the  redeemed  is  sent; 

Ten  thousand  hamlets  swell  the  hymn  of  thanks; 

Our  rivers  roll  exulting,  and  their  banks 
Send  up  hosannas  to  the  firmament ! 
Fields  where  the  bondman's  toil 
No  more  shall  trench  the  soil, 
Seem  now  to  bask  in  a  serener  day ; 

The  meadow-birds  sing  sweeter,  and  the  airs 
Of  heaven  with  more  caressing  softness  play, 

Welcoming  man  to  liberty  like  theirs. 
A  glory  clothes  the  land  from  sea  to  sea, 
For  the  great  land  and  all  its  coasts  are  free. 

Within  that  land  wert  thou  enthroned  of  late, 
And  they  by  whom  the  nation's  laws  were  made, 
And  they  who  rilled  its  judgment-seats,  obeyed 

Thy  mandate,  rigid  as  the  will  of  Fate. 
Fierce  men  at  thy  right  hand, 
With  gesture  of  command, 

Gave  forth  the  word  that  none  might  dare  gainsay ; 
And  grave  and  reverend  ones,  who  loved  thee  rfot, 

Shrank  from  thy  presence,  and  in  blank  dismay 
Choked  down,  unuttered,  the  rebellious  thought; 

While  meaner  cowards,  mingling  with  thy  train, 

Proved,  from  the  book  of  God,  thy  right  to  reign. 

Great  as  thou  wert,  and  feared  from  shore  to  shore, 
The  wrath  of  Heaven  o'ertook  thee  in  thy  pride ; 
Thou  sitt'st  a  ghastly  shadow ;  by  thy  side 
Thy  once  strong  arms  hang  nerveless  evermore. 
And  they  who  quailed  but  now 
Before  thy  lowering  brow, 


THE  WAR  93 

Devote  thy  memory  to  scorn  and  shame, 
And  scoff  at  the  pale,  powerless  thing  thou  art. 

And  they  who  ruled  in  thine  imperial  name, 
Subdued,  and  standing  sullenly  apart, 

Scowl  at  the  hands  that  overthrew  thy  reign, 

And  shattered  at  a  blow  the  prisoner's  chain. 

Well  was  thy  doom  deserved;  thou  didst  not  spare 
Life's  tenderest  ties,  but  cruelly  didst  part 
Husband  and  wife,  and  from  the  mother's  heart 
Didst  wrest  her  children,  deaf  to  shriek  and  prayer ; 
Thy  inner  lair  became 
The  haunt  of  guilty  shame ; 

Thy  lash  dropped  blood ;  the  murderer,  at  thy  side, 
Showed  his  red  hands,  nor  feared  the  vengeance 

due. 
Thou  didst  sow  earth  with  crimes,  and,  far  and  wide, 

A  harvest  of  uncounted  miseries  grew, 
Until  the  measure  of  thy  sins  at  last 
Was  full,  and  then  the  avenging  bolt  was  cast ! 

Go  now,  accursed  of  God,  and  take  thy  place 
With  hateful  memories  of  the  elder  time, 
With  many  a  wasting  plague,  and  nameless  crime, 

And  bloody  war  that  thinned  the  human  race ; 
With  the  Black  Death,  whose  way 
Through  wailing  cities  lay, 

Worship  of  Moloch,  tyrannies  that  built 
The  Pyramids,  and  cruel  creeds  that  taught 

To  avenge  a  fancied  guilt  by  deeper  guilt — 
Death  at  the  stake  to  those  that  held  them  not. 

Lo!  the  foul  phantoms,  silent  in  the  gloom 

Of  the  flown  ages,  part  to  yield  thee  room. 


94  MEMORIAL  DAY 

I  see  the  better  years  that  hasten  by 
Carry  thee  back  into  that  shadowy  past, 
Where,  in  the  dusty  spaces,  void  and  vast, 

The  graves  of  those  whom  thou  hast  murdered  lie. 
The  slave-pen,  through  whose  door 
Thy  victims  pass  no  more, 

Is  there,  and  there  shall  the  grim  block  remain 
At  which  the  slave  was  sold ;  while  at  thy  feet 

Scourges  and  engines  of  restraint  and  pain 
Molder  and  rust  by  thine  eternal  seat. 

There,  mid  the  symbols  that  proclaim  thy  crimes, 

Dwell  thou,  a  warning  to  the  coming  times. 


CAVALRY  CROSSING  A  FORD 

BY    WALT   WHITMAN 

A  line  in  long  array  where  they  wind  betwixt  green 
islands, 

They  take  a  serpentine  course,  their  arms  flash  in  the 
sun, — hark  to  the  musical  clank, 

Behold  the  silvery  river,  in  it  the  splashing  horses 
loitering  stop  to  drink, 

Behold  the  brown-faced  men,  each  group,  each  person, 
a  picture,  the  negligent  rest  on  the  saddles, 

Some  emerge  on  the  opposite  bank,  others  are  just  en 
tering  the  ford — while, 

Scarlet  and  blue  and  snowy  white, 

The  guidon  flags  flutter  gayly  in  the  wind. 


THE  WAR  95 

BIVOUAC  ON  A  MOUNTAIN   SIDE 

BY    WALT    WHITMAN 

I  see  before  me  now  a  traveling  army  halting, 

Below  a  fertile  valley  spread,  with  barns  and  the 
orchards  of  summer, 

Behind,  the  terraced  sides  of  a  mountain,  abrupt,  in 
places  rising  high, 

Broken,  with  rocks,  with  clinging  cedars,  with  tall 
shapes  dingily  seen, 

The  numerous  camp-fires  scattered  near  and  far,  some 
away  up  on  the  mountain, 

The  shadowy  forms  of  men  and  horses,  looming,  large- 
sized,  flickering, 

And  over  all  the  sky — the  sky!  far,  far  out  of  reach, 
studded,  breaking  out,  the  eternal  stars. 


FROM  "THE  RIVER-FIGHT " 

BY  HENRY   HOWARD  BROWNELL 

Would  you  hear  of  the  River-Fight? 
It  was  two  of  a  soft  spring  night ; — 

God's  stars  looked  down  on  all, 
And  all  was  clear  and  bright 
But  the  low  fog's  chilling  breath — 
Up  the  River  of  Death 

Sailed  the  Great  Admiral. 


96  MEMORIAL  DAY 

On  our  high  poop-deck  he  stood, 

And  round  him  ranged  the  men 
Who  have  made  their  birthright  good 

Of  manhood,  once  and  again, — 
Lords  of  helm  and  of  sail, 
Tried  in  tempest  and  gale, 

Bronzed  in  battle  and  wreck: 
Bell  and  Bailey  grandly  led 
Each  his  Line  of  the  Blue  and  Red, 
Wainwright  stood  by  our  starboard  rail, 

Thornton  fought  the  deck. 

And  I  mind  me  of  more  than  they, 
Of  the  youthful,  steadfast  ones, 
That  have  shown  them  worthy  sons 

Of  the  Seamen  passed  away — 

Tyson  conned  our  helm  that  day, 
Watson  stood  by  his  guns. 

What  thought  our  Admiral  then. 
Looking  down  on  his  men  ? 

Since  the  terrible  day, 

(Day  of  renown  and  tears!) 

When  at  anchor  the  Essex  lay, 

Holding  her  foes  at  bay, 
When,  a  boy,  by  Porter's  side  he  stood 
Till  deck  and  plank-sheer  were  dyed  with  blood, 
Tis  half  a  hundred  years — 

Half  a  hundred  years  to-day! 

Who  could  fail  with  him? 
Who  reckon  of  life  or  limb? 

Not  a  pulse  but  beat  the  higher! 


THE  WAR  97 

There  had  you  seen,  by  the  starlight  dim, 
Five  hundred  faces  strong  and  grim — 

The  Flag  is  going  under  fire ! 
Right  up  by  the  fort,  with  her  helm  hard-a-port, 

The  Hartford  is  going  under  fire ! 

The  way  to  our  work  was  plain, 
Caldwell  had  broken  the  chain 
(Two  hulks  swung  down  amain, 

Soon  as  'twas  sundered). 
Under  the  night's  dark  blue, 
Steering  steady  and  true, 
Ship  after  ship  went  through, 
Till,  as  we  hove  in  view, 

Jackson  out-thundered. 

Back  echoed  Philip !  ah,  then 
Could  you  have  seen  our  men, 

How  they  sprung,  in  the  dim  night  haze, 
To  their  work  of  toil  and  of  clamor! 
How  the  loaders,  with  sponge  and  rammer, 
And  their  captains,  with  cord  and  hammer, 

Kept  every  muscle  ablaze ! 
How  the  guns,  as  with  cheer  and  shout 
Our  tackle-men  hurled  them  out, 

Brought  up  on  the  waterways! 

First,  as  we  fired  at  their  flash, 

'Twas  lightning  and  black  eclipse, 
With  a  bellowing  roll  and  crash ; 
But  soon,  upon  either  bow, 

What  with  forts,  and  fire-rafts,  and  ships, 


g8  MEMORIAL  DAY 

(The  whole  fleet  was  hard  at  it  now, 

All  pounding  away!)  and  Porter 

Still  thundering  with  shell  and  mortar, 

Twas  the  mighty  sound  and  form 

Of  an  equatorial  storm ! 

(Such  you  see  in  the  Far  South, 
After  long  heat  and  drouth, 

As  day  draws  nigh  to  even : 
Arching  from  North  to  South, 
Blinding  the  tropic  sun, 
The  great  black  bow  comes  on, 
Till  the  thunder-veil  is  riven, 
When  all  is  crash  and  levin, 
And  the  cannonade  of  heaven 
Rolls  down  the  Amazon!) 

But,  as  we  worked  along  higher, 
Just  where  the  river  enlarges, 

Down  came  a  pyramid  of  fire — 

It  was  one  of  your  long  coal  barges 
(We  had  often  had  the  like  before). 

'Twas  coming  down  on  us  to  larboard, 
Well  in  with  the  eastern  shore, 
And  our  pilot,  to  let  it  pass  round, 
(You  may  guess  we  never  stopped  to  sound) 

Giving  us  a  rank  sheer  to  starboard, 
Ran  the  Flag  hard  and  fast  aground ! 

Twas  night  abreast  the  Upper  Fort, 
And  straightway  a  rascal  Ram 
(She  was  shaped  like  the  devil's  dam) 


THE  WAR  99 

Puffed  away  for  us  with  a  snort, 

And  shoved  it  with  spiteful  strength 
Right  alongside  of  us,  to  port. 

(It  was  all  of  our  ship's  length, 
A  huge  crackling  Cradle  of  the  Pit, 

Pitch-pine  knots  to  the  brim, 

Belching  flame  red  and  grim) 
What  a  roar  came  up  from  it ! 


Well,  for  a  little  it  looked  bad  ; 

But  these  things  are,  somehow,  shorter 
In  the  acting  than  the  telling. 
There  was  no  singing-out  nor  yelling, 
Nor  any  fussing  and  fretting, 

No  stampede,  in  short; 
But  there  we  were,  my  lad, 

All  afire  on  our  port  quarter, 
Hammocks  ablaze  in  the  netting, 

Flames  spouting  in  at  every  port, 
Our  Fourth  Cutter  burning  at  the  davit, 
No  chance  to  lower  away  and  save  it. 

In  a  twinkling  the  flames  had  risen 
Halfway  to  maintop  and  mizzen, 

Darting  up  the  shrouds  like  snakes. 

Ah,  how  we  clanked  at  the  brakes ! 

And  the  deep  steam-pumps  throbbed  under, 

Sending  a  ceaseless  flow. 
Our  topmen,  a  dauntless  crowd, 
Swarmed  in  rigging  and  shroud — 

There   ('twas  a  wonder!) 


ioo  MEMORIAL  DAY 

The  burning  ratlines  and  strands 

They  quenched  with  their  bare  hard  hands; 

But  the  great  guns  below 
Never  silenced  their  thunder! 

At  last,  by  backing  and  sounding, 

When  we  were  clear  of  grounding, 
And  under  headway  once  more, 

The  whole  rebel  fleet  came  rounding 
The  point.     If  we  had  it  hot  before, 
'Twas  now,  from  shore  to  shore, 
One  long,  loud  thundering  roar — 

Such  crashing,  splintering,  and  pounding, 
And  smashing  as  you  never  heard  before! 

But  that  we  fought  foul  wrong  to  wreck, 
And  to  save  the  Land  we  loved  so  well, 

You  might  have  deemed  our  long  gun  deck 
Two  hundred  feet  of  hell ! 

For  all  above  was  battle, 
Broadside,  and  blaze,  and  rattle, 

Smoke  and  thunder  alone  ; 
But,  down  in  the  sick-bay, 
Where  our  wounded  and  dying  lay, 

There  was  scarce  a  sob  or  a  moan. 

And  at  last,  when  the  dim  day  broke, 
And  the  sullen  sun  awoke, 

Drearily  blinking 

O'er  the  haze  and  the  cannon-smoke, 
That  ever  such  morning  dulls, 
There  were  thirteen  traitor  hulls 

On  fire  and  sinking! 


THE  WAR  101 

IN  ACTION 

ANONYMOUS 

When  the  blue-black  waves  are  tipped  with  white,  and 

the  balmy  trade-winds  blow, 
When  the  palm-crowned  coast  in  the  offing  lies,  with 

sands  like  the  driven  snow, 
When  the  mighty  hulls  of  the  battleships — the  nation's 

strength  arid  pride — 
And  the  ghostlike  little  torpedo-boats  are  lying  side  by 

side; 

When  all  is  still  save  the  screaming  gulls,  as  they 

circle  high  o'erhead, 
When  naught  is  heard  on  the  steel-bound  decks,  save 

the  watches'  measured  tread, 
When  far  to  windward  a  tiny  cloud  floats  up  from 

the  grim  old  fort, 
Then  the  piercing  scream  of  a  shrapnel-shot  and  the 

ten-ton  gun's  report; 

Then  armored  decks  are  alive  with  life,  and  the  calls 

to  quarters  below, 
Then  the  gun  crews  stand  beside  their  guns,  and  the 

stokers  sweat  below, 
Then  the  jingling  bells  in  the  engine-room  clamor  and 

call  for  speed, 
And  the  thousand  tons  of  hardened  steel  shake  like  a 

wind-tossed  reed. 


rue 

UNIVERSITY 

Of 


102  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Now  the  guns  of  the  fort  are  belching  flame,  and  the 

shot  and  shell  fall  fast, 
Now  three  are  down  by  the  forward  gun,  and  six  in 

the  fighting  mast, 
Now  the  ships  rush  on  in  majesty,  while  the  gunners 

hold  their  breath, 
And  pray  to  their  God  to  spare  them  still  from  the 

harbor's  hidden  death. 


Now  a  string  of  fluttering  signal  flags  from  the  bridge 

of  the  flagship  fly, 
Now  the  gatlings,  rapids,  and  twelve-inch  guns  with 

a  crashing  peal  reply, 
Now  the  smoke  hangs  low  o'er  the  shot-torn  wave, 

dark  death  lurks  in  the  air, 
And  never  a  word  by  the  guns  is  said  while  they  spit 

and  boom  and  flare. 

The  fleet  steams  up  in  battle  array,  and  the  broadsides 

crash  and  roar, 
While  the  rumble  and  rip  from  the  enemy's  guns  reply 

from  the  smoke-hung  shore ; 
The  once  white  decks  run  red  with  blood,  while  the 

surgeons  work  below, 
And  fort  and  fleet,  with  shot  and  shell,  pay  back  each 

blow  with  blow. 

At  last  a  flag  of  truce  is  raised  and  gleams  through  the 

drifting  smoke, 
And  the  havoc  and  wreck  of  a  gun  is  seen,  where  a 

ten-inch  shrapnel  broke ; 


THE  WAR  103 

At  last  the  guns  of  the  fleet  are  still,  and  now  from 

far  and  near 
Are  heard  the  shouts  of  a  victor's  crew  as  they  answer 

cheer  with  cheer. 

The  shrilly  call  of  the  bo's'n's  mate  the  crew  from 

quarters  pipes, 
And    the    dead    are    stretched   on   the    quarter-deck, 

wrapped  in  the  stars  and  stripes, 
While  the  setting  sun  sinks  in  the  west,  a  blazing  ball 

of  fire, 
Lighting  the  scene  of  a  battle  fought,  and  the  carnage 

of  man's  desire. 


FREDERICKSBURG * 
December  13,  1862 

BY   THOMAS    BAILEY    ALDRICH 

The  increasing  moonlight  drifts  across  my  bed, 

And  on  the  churchyard  by  the  road  I  know 

It  falls  as  white  and  noiselessly  as  snow. 

Twas  such  a  night  two  weary  summers  fled ; 

The  stars,  as  now,  were  waning  overhead. 

Listen!     Again   the   shrill-lipped  bugles  blow 

Where  the  swift  currents  of  the  river  flow 

Past  Fredericksburg :  far  off  the  heavens  are  red 

With  sudden  conflagration :  on  yon  height, 

Linstock  in  hand,  the  gunners  hold  their  breath : 

1  By  permission  of  the  publishers,  H  ought  on,  Mifflin  &  Co. 


104  MEMORIAL  DAY 

A  single-rocket  pierces  the  dense  night, 

Flings  its  spent  stars  upon  the  town  beneath : 

Hark! — the  artillery  massing  on  the  right, 

Hark! — the  black  squadrons  wheeling  down  to  Death. 


THE  LAST  FIGHT 

BY  LEWIS  FRANK  TOOKER 

That  night  I  think  that  no  one  slept  ; 

No  bells  were  struck,  no  whistle  blew, 
And  when  the  watch  was  changed  I  crept 

From  man  to  man  of  all  the  crew 
With  whispered  orders.     Though  we  swept 

Through  roaring  seas,  we  hushed  the  clock, 

And  muffled  every  clanking  block. 

So  when  one  fool,  unheeding,  cried 
Some  petty  order,  straight  I  ran, 

And  threw  him  sprawling  o'er  the  side. 
All  life  is  but  a  narrow  span: 

It  little  matters  that  one  bide 
A  moment  longer  here,  for  all 
Fare  the  same  road,  whate'er  befall. 

But  vain  my  care ;  for  when  the  day 
Broke  gray  and  wet,  we  saw  the  foe 

But  half  a  stormy  league  away. 

By  noon  we  saw  his  black  bows  throw 

Five  fathoms  high  a  wall  of  spray ; 
A  little  more,  we  heard  the  drum, 
And  knew  that  our  last  hour  had  come. 


THE  WAR  105 

All  day  our  crew  had  lined  the  side 

With  grim,  set  faces,  muttering; 
And  once  a  boy  (the  first  that  died) 

One  of  our  wild  songs  tried  to  sing; 
But  when  their  first  shot  missed  us  wide, 

A  dozen  sprang  above  our  rail, 

Shook  fists,  and  roared  a  cursing  hail. 

Thereon,  all  hot  for  war,  they  bound 

Their  heads  with  cool,  wet  bands,  and  drew 
Their  belts  close,  and  their  keen  blades  ground ; 

Then,  at  the  next  gun's  puff  of  blue, 
We  set  the  grog-cup  on  its  round, 

And  pledged  for  life  or  pledged  for  death 

Our  last  sigh  of  expiring  breath. 

Laughing,  our  brown  young  singer  fell 

As  their  next  shot  crashed  through  our  rail ; 

Then  'twixt  us  flashed  the  fire  of  hell, 
That  shattered  spar  and  riddled  sail, 

What  ill  we  wrought  we  could  not  tell ; 
But  blood-red  all  their  scuppers  dripped 
When  their  black  hull  to  starboard  dipped. 

Nine  times  I  saw  our  helmsman  fall. 

And  nine  times  sent  new  men,  who  took 
The  whirling  wheel  as  at  death's  call ; 

But  when  I  saw  the  last  one  look 
From  sky  to  deck,  then,  reeling,  crawl 

Under  the  shattered  rail  to  die, 

I  knew  where  I  should  surely  lie. 


106  MEMORIAL  DAY 

I  could  not  send  more  men  to  stand 
And  turn  in  idleness  the  wheel 

Until  they  took  death's  beckoning  hand, 
While  others,  meeting  steel  with  steel, 

Flamed  out  their  lives — an  eager  band, 
Cheers  on  their  lips,  and  in  their  eyes 
The  goal-rapt  look  of  high  emprise. 

So  to  the  wheel  I  went.     Like  bees 
I  heard  the  shot  go  darting  by; 

There  came  a  trembling  in  my  knees, 
And  black  spots  whirled  about  the  sky. 

I  thought  of  things  beyond  the  seas — 
The  little  town  where  I  was  born, 
And  swallows  twittering  in  the  morn. 

A  wounded  creature  drew  him  where 

I  grasped  the  wheel,  and  begged  to  steer. 
It  mattered  not  how  he  might  fare 

The  little  time  he  had  for  fear ; 
So  if  I  left  this  to  his  care 

He  too  might  serve  us  yet,  he  said. 

He  died  there  while  I  shook  my  head. 

I  would  not  fall  so  like  a  dog, 

My  helpless  back  turned  to  the  foe ; 

So  when  his  great  hulk,  like  a  log, 
Came  surging  past  our  quarter,  lo! 

With  helm  hard  down,  straight  through  the  fog 
Of  battle  smoke,  and  luffing  wide, 
I  sent  our  sharp  bow  through  his  side. 


THE  WAR  107 

The  willing  waves  came  rushing  in 

The  ragged  entrance  that  we  gave ; 
Like  snakes  I  heard  their  green  coils  spin 

Up,  up,  around  our  floating  grave ; 
But  dauntless  still,  amid  a  din 

Of  clashing  steel  and  battle-shout, 

We  rushed  to  drive  their  boarders  out. 


Around  me  in  a  closing  ring 

My  grim- faced  foemen  darkly  drew ; 

Then,  sweeter  than  the  lark  in  spring, 

Loud  rang  our  blades ;  the  red  sparks  flew. 

Twice,  thrice,  I  felt  the  sudden  sting 

Of  some  keen  stroke;  then,  swinging  fair, 
My  own  clave  more  than  empty  air. 

The  fight  went  raging  past  me  when 
My  good  blade  cleared  a  silent  place; 

Then  in  a  ring  of  fallen  men 

I  paused  to  breathe  a  little  space. 

Elsewhere  the  deck  roared  like  a  glen 
When  mountain  torrents  meet;  the  fray 
A  moment  then  seemed  far  away. 

The  barren  sea  swept  to  the  sky ; 

The  empty  sky  dipped  to  the  sea ; 
Such  utter  waste  could  scarcely  lie 

Beyond  death's  starved  periphery. 
Only  one  living  thing  went  by : 

Far  overhead  an  ominous  bird 

Rode  down  the  gale  with  wings  unstirred. 


io8  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Windward  I  saw  the  billows  swing 
Dark  crests  to  beckon  others  on 

To  see  our  end ;  then,  hurrying 

To  reach  us  ere  we  should  be  gone, 

They  came,  like  tigers  mad  to  fling 
Their  jostling  bodies  on  our  ships, 
And  snarl  at  us  with  foaming  lips. 

There  was  no  time  to  spare:  a  wave 
E'en  then  broke  growling  at  my  feet; 

One  last  look  to  the  sky  I  gave, 

Then  sprang  my  eager  foes  to  meet. 

Loud  rang  the  fray  above  our  grave — 
I  felt  the  vessel  downward  reel 
As  my  last  thrust  met  thrusting  steel. 

I  heard  a  roaring  in  my  ears ; 

A  green  wall  pressed  against  my  eyes ; 
Down,  down  I  passed ;  the  vanished  years 

I  saw  in  mimicry  arise. 
Yet  even  then  I  felt  no  fears, 

And  with  my  last  expiring  breath 

My  past  rose  up  and  mocked  at  death. 


VICKSBURG 

BY    PAUL    HAMILTON    HAYNE 

For  sixty  days  and  upwards, 

A  storm  of  shell  and  shot 
Rained  round  us  in  a  flaming  shower, 

But  still  we  faltered  not. 


THE  WAR  109 

"  If  the  noble  city  perish," 

Our  grand  young  leader  said, 
"  Let  the  only  walls  the  foe  shall  scale 

Be  ramparts  of  the  dead !  " 

For  sixty  days  and  upwards, 

The  eye  of  heaven  waxed  dim ; 
And  even  throughout  God's  holy  morn, 

O'er  Christian  prayer  and  hymn, 
Arose  a  hissing  tumult, 

As  if  the  fiends  in  air 
Strove  to  engulf  the  voice  of  faith 

In  the  shrieks  of  their  despair. 

There  was  wailing  in  the  houses, 

There  was  trembling  on  the  marts,  • 
While  the  tempest  raged  and  thundered, 

Mid  the  silent  thrill  of  hearts  ; 
But  the  Lord,  our  shield,  was  with  us, 

And  ere  a  month  had  sped, 
Our  very  women  walked  the  streets 

With  scarce  one  throb  of  dread. 

And  the  little  children  gamboled, 

Their  faces  purely  raised, 
Just  for  a  wondering  moment, 

As  the  huge  bombs  whirled  and  blazed ; 
Then  turned  with  silvery  laughter 

To  the  sports  which  children  love, 
Thrice-mailed  in  the  sweet,  instinctive  thought 

That  the  good  God  watched  above. 


no  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Yet  the  hailing  bolts  fell  faster, 

From  scores  of  flame-clad  ships, 
And  about  us,  denser,  darker, 

Grew  the  conflict's  wild  eclipse, 
Till  a  solid  cloud  closed  o'er  us, 

Like  a  type  of  doom  and  ire, 
Whence  shot  a  thousand  quivering  tongues 

Of  forked  and  vengeful  fire. 

But  the  unseen  hands  of  angels 

Those  death-shafts  warned  aside, 
And  the  dove  of  heavenly  mercy 

Ruled  o'er  the  battle  tide ; 
In  the  houses  ceased  the  wailing, 

And  through  the  war-scarred  marts 
The  people  strode,  with  step  of  hope, 

To  the  music  in  their  hearts. 

(Southern.) 
THREE  HUNDRED  THOUSAND  MORE 

ANONYMOUS 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thou 
sand  more, 

From  Mississippi's  winding  stream  and  from  New 
England's  shore; 

We  leave  our  plows  and  workshops,  our  wives  and 
children  dear, 

With  hearts  too  full  for  utterance,  with  but  a  silent 
tear; 


THE  WAR  in 

We  dare  not  look  behind  us,  but  steadfastly  before : 
We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thou 
sand  more! 

If  you  look  across  the  hill-tops  that  meet  the  northern 
sky, 

Long  moving  lines  of  rising  dust  your  vision  may 
descry ; 

And  now  the  wind,  an  instant,  tears  the  cloudy  veil 
aside, 

And  floats  aloft  our  spangled  flag  in  glory  and  in  pride, 

And  bayonets  in  the  sunlight  gleam,  and  bands  brave 
music  pour : 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thou 
sand  more ! 

If  you  look  all  up  our  valleys  where  the  growing  har 
vests  shine, 

You  may  see  our  sturdy  farmer  boys  fast  forming  into 
line; 

And  children  from  their  mother's  knees  are  pulling  at 
the  weeds, 

And  learning  how  to  reap  and  sow  against  their  coun 
try's  needs ; 

And  a  farewell  group  stands  weeping  at  every  cottage 
door: 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thou 
sand  more ! 

You  have  called  us,  and  we're  coming,  by  Richmond's 

bloody  tide 
To  lay  us  down,  for  Freedom's  sake,  our  brother's 

bones  beside, 


ii2  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Or  from  foul  treason's  savage  grasp  to  wrench  the 
murderous  blade, 

And  in  the  face  of  foreign  foes  its  fragments  to  parade. 

Six  hundred  thousand  loyal  men  and  true  have  gone 
before : 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thou 
sand  more ! 


IN  DAYS  LIKE  THESE 

BY   THOMAS    H.    STACY 

O  God  of  hosts,  whose  mighty  hand 
Our  fathers  led  across  the  seas, 

We  took  from  thee  our  goodly  land, 
To  thee  we  look  in  days  like  these. 

'Mid  swelling  tumult,  bitter  word, 
'Mid  clashing  arms  and  bugles'  blare, 
While  war-drums  fret  the  fevered  air, 

In  days  like  these,  be  near,  O  Lord. 

The  winds  have  swept  our  colors  out, 
Our  polished  guns  the  sun  has  kissed ; 

With  measured  step  and  loyal  shout, 
The  men  troop  by  who  now  are  missed, 

The  hilltops  signal  far  away, 

The  sea  calls  sea  with  beacon  lips, 
Where  ride  our  far-flung  battleships 

To  strike  the  foe  at  break  of  day. 


THE  WAR  113 

Forgive,  O  Lord,  that  we  forgot 

To  humble  self  and  thee  to  please ; 
Our  vows  unkept,  sins  thought,  unthought, 

Forgive,  O  Lord,  in  days  like  these. 
Our  gift  upon  the  altar  lies, 

Accept  it  ere  thou  call  us  hence, 

Although  thou  saidst  obedience 
Is  better  than  a  sacrifice. 

'Tis  not  for  gain  or  vengeful  spite 

Our  treasure  and  our  life  is  poured, 
But  for  the  wronged  who  have  no  might, 

Whose  cry  has  reached  the  ear  of  God. 
In  days  like  these  our  motives  take, 

Since  whom  thou  usest  thou  must  trust ; 

And  when  we  strike  because  we  must, 
Help  us  to  heal  the  wounds  we  make. 


THE  TROOP-SHIP  SAILS 

BY  ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 

Is  it  good-by, 

My  lad? 
No,  I'll  not  cry. 
Has  the  time  come? 
The  bugle-call  from  the  sea-wall, 
The  tap  of  drum? 
My  tears  are  dry. 


H4  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Rest  your  head  here, 

My  lad, 

Close  to  me,  dear; 
Why  do  you  stare? 
Have  pain  and  care  made  me  less  fair  ? 
Are  my  lips  white  with  fear? 
Hark!  how  they  cheer 
Down  in  the  Square  there! 

What  do  they  care, 

My  lad, 

For  this  brown  hair 
That  I  love  so? 

Their  drums'  long  roll  will  crush  my  soul- 
Ah,  God !  don't  go ! — 
I  cannot  bear — 

There,  I'll  be  still, 

My  lad, 
Truly  I  will  ; 
My  tears  are  spent. 
Which   regiment  will   next   be   sent? 
Does  every  bullet  kill? 
Hold  me  until 
The  call  is  urgent ! 

Who  spoke  your  name, 

My  lad? 

The  summons  came 
Out  of  the  crowd! 
Oh,  hold  me,  lad !  fold  me,  lad ! 
Their  flag's  a  shroud 
To  bury  shame! 


THE  WAR  115 

Have  they  begun, 
My  lad? 

See,  the  troops  run! 
Your  eyes  are  wet; 
You  are  so  quiet;  is  there  time  yet? 
God !     It's  the  signal  gun  ! 
Kiss  me, — just  one. 
Run  with  your  musket! 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CHARLESTON  HARBOR 

Bombardment  of  Fort  Sumter  by  the  fleet,  April  fth, 

1863 

BY  PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

Two  hours,  or  more,  beyond  the  prime  of  a  blithe 

April  day, 
The   Northmen's   mailed   "  Invincibles "    steamed   up 

fair  Charleston  Bay; 
They  came  in  sullen  file  and  slow,  low-breasted  on  the 

wave, 
Black  as  a  midnight  front  of  storm,  and  silent  as  the 

grave. 

A  thousand  warrior-hearts  beat  high  as  those  dread 

monsters  drew 
More  closely  to  the  game  of  death  across  the  breezeless 

blue, 


ii6  MEMORIAL  DAY 

And  twice  ten  thousand  hearts  of  those  who  watched 
the  scene  afar, 

Thrill  in  the  awful  hush  that  bides  the  battle's  broad 
ening  star. 

Each  gunner,  moveless  by  his  gun,  with  rigid  aspect 

stands, 
The  ready  lanyards  firmly  grasped  in  bold,  untrembling 

hands, 
So  moveless  in  their  marbled  calm,  their  stern  heroic 

guise, 
They  looked  like  forms  of  statued  stone  with  burning 

human  eyes ! 

Our  banners  on  the  outmost  walls,  with  stately  rust 
ling  fold, 

Flash  back  from  arch  and  parapet  the  sunlight's  ruddy 
gold,— 

They  mount  to  the  deep  roll  of  drums,  and  widely 
echoing  cheers, 

And  then — once  more,  dark,  breathless,  hushed,  wait 
the  grim  cannoneers. 

Onward — in  sullen  file  and  slow,  low  glooming  on  the 

wave, 
Near,  nearer  still,  the  haughty  fleet  glides  silent  as  the 

grave, 
When  sudden,  shivering  up  the  calm,  o'er  startled  flood 

and  shore, 
Burst  from  the  sacred  Island  Fort  the  thunder-wrath 

of  yore ! 


THE  WAR  117 

Ha!  brutal  Corsairs!  though  ye  come  thrice-cased  in 

iron  mail, 
Beware  the  storm  that's  opening  now,  God's  vengeance 

guides  the  hail ! 
Ye  strive,  the  ruffian  types  of  Might,  'gainst  Law  and 

Truth  and  Right; 
Now   quail   beneath   a   sturdier    Power,   and   own    a 

mightier  Might ! 

No  empty  boast!  for  while  we  speak,  more  furious, 

wilder,  higher, 
Dart  from  the  circling  batteries  a  hundred  tongues  of 

fire; 
The  waves  gleam  red,  the  lurid  vault  of  heaven  seems 

rent  above; 
Fight  on,  O  knightly  gentlemen !  for  faith  and  home 

and  love ! 

There's  not  in  all  that  line  of  flame,  one  soul  that  would 

not  rise 
To  seize  the  victor's  wreath  of  blood,  though  death 

must  give  the  prize — 
There's  not  in  all  this  anxious  crowd  that  throngs  the 

ancient  town 
A  maid  who  does  not  yearn  for  power  to  strike  one 

despot  down. 

The    strife   grows    fiercer!    ship   by    ship   the   proud 

armada  sweeps, 
Where  hot  from  Sumter's  raging  breast  the  volleyed 

lightning  leaps; 


ii8  MEMORIAL  DAY 

And  ship  by  ship,  raked,  overborne,  ere  burned  the 

sunset  light, 
Crawls  in  the  gloom  of  baffled  hate  beyond  the  field  of 

fight! 

O  glorious  Empress  of  the  Main !  from  out  thy  storied 

spires 
Thou  well  mayst  peal  thy  bells  of  joy,  and  light  thy 

festal  fires, — 
Since  Heaven  this  day  hath   striven   for  thee,   hath 

nerved  thy  dauntless  sons, 
And  thou  in  clear-eyed  faith  hast  seen  God's  angels 

near  the  guns ! 
(Southern.) 


CANTICLE  DE  PROFUNDIS * 

BY  LUCY  LARCOM 

Glory  to  Thee,  Father  of  all  the  Immortal, 

Ever  belongs; 
We  bring  Thee  from  our  watch  by  the  grave's  portal 

Nothing  but  songs. 
Though  every  wave  of  trouble  has  gone  o'er  us, — 

Though  in  the  fire 
We  have  lost  treasures  time  cannot  restore  us, — 

Though  all  desire 
That  made  life  beautiful  fades  out  in  sorrow, — 

Though  the   strange  path 
Winding  so  lonely  through  the  bleak  to-morrow, 

No  comfort  hath, — 

1  By  permission  of  the  publishers,  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 


THE  WAR  119 

Though  blackness  gathers  round  us  on  all  faces, 

And  we  can  see 
By  the  red  war-flash  but  Love's  empty  places, — 

Glory  to  Thee! 

For,  underneath  the  crash  and  roar  of  battle, 

The  deafening  roll 
That  calls  men  off  to  butchery  like  cattle, 

Soul  after  soul; 
Under  the  horrid  sound  of  chaos  seething 

In  blind  hot  strife, 
We  feel  the  moving  of  Thy  Spirit,  breathing 

A  better  life 
Into  the  air  of  our  long-sickened  nation; 

A  muffled  hymn; 
The  star-sung  prelude  of  a  new  creation; 

Suffusions  dim, — 
The  bursting  upward  of  a  stifled  glory, 

That   shall   arise 
To  light  new  pages  in  the  world's  great  story 

For  happier  eyes. 

If  upon  lips  too  close  to  dead  lips  leaning, 

Songs  be  not  found, 
Yet  wilt  Thou  know  our  lifess  unuttered  meaning: 

In  its  deep  ground, 
As  seeds  in  earth,  sleep  sorrow-drenched  praises, 

Waiting  to  bring 
Incense  to  Thee  along  thought's  barren  mazes 

When  Thou  send'st  spring. 

Glory  to  Thee!  we  say,  with  shuddering  wonder, 
While  a  hushed  land 


120  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Hears  the  stern  lesson  syllabled  in  thunder, 

That  Truth  is  grand 
As  life  must  be;  that  neither  man  nor  nation 

May  soil  Thy  throne 
With  a  soul's  life-blood — horrible  oblation! 

Nor  quick  be  shown 
That  Thou  wilt  not  be  mocked  by  prayer  whose  nurses 

Were  Hate  and  Wrong; 
That  trees  so  vile  must  drop  back  fruit  in  curses 

Bitter  and  strong. 

Glory  to  Thee,  who  wilt  not  let  us  smother 

Ourselves  in  sin; 
Sending  Pain's  messengers  fast  on  each  other 

Us  whence  to  win ! 
Praise  for  the  scourging  under  which  we  languish, 

So  torn,  so  sore ! 
And  save  us  strength,  if  yet  uncleansed  by  anguish, 

To  welcome  more. 
Life  were  not  life  to  us,  could  they  be  fables, — 

Justice  and  Right : 
Scathe  crime  with  lightning,  till  we  see  the  tables 

Of  Law  burn  bright! 

Glory  to  Thee,  whose  glory  and  whose  pleasure 

Must  be  in  good ! 
By  Thee  the  mysteries  we  cannot  measure 

Are  understood. 
With  the  abysses  of  Thyself  above  us, 

Our  sins  below, 

That   Thou   dost   look   from   Thy  pure   heaven   and 
love  us, 

Enough  to  know. 


THE  WAR  121 

Enough  to  lay  our  praises  on  Thy  bosom — 

Praises  fresh-grown 
Out  of  our  depths,  dark  root  and  open  blossom, 

Up  to  Thy  throne. 
When  choking  tears  make  our  Hosannas  falter, 

The  music   free! 
Oh,  keep  clear  voices  singing  at  Thy  altar, 

Glory  to  Thee ! 


"HOW  ARE  YOU,  SANITARY?"1 

BY   FRANCIS    BRET   HARTE 

The  U.  S.  Sanitary  Commission  zvas  organized  to  sup 
ply  comforts  to  the  soldiers  in  the  field.  Out  of 
this  grew  the  Red  Cross  Associations 

Down  the  picket-guarded  lane 
Rolled   the   comfort-laden   wain, 
Cheered  by  shouts  that  shook  the  plain, 

Soldier-like  and  merry : 
Phrases  such  as  camps  may  teach, 
Saber-cuts  of  Saxon  speech, 
Such  as  "  Bully !  "  "  Them's  the  peach !  " 

"Wade  in,  Sanitary!" 

Right  and  left  the  caissons  drew 
As  the  car  went  lumbering  through, 

1  By  permission  of  the  publishers,  Houghton,  Miffiin  &  Co. 


122  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Quick  succeeding  in  review 

Squadrons  military; 
Sunburnt  men  with  beards  like  frieze, 
Smooth-faced  boys,  and  cries  like  these, — 
"  U.  S.  San.  Com."    "  That's  the  cheese !  " 

"  Pass  in,  Sanitary !  " 

In  such  cheer  it  struggled  on 
Till  the  battle  front  was  won, 
Then  the  car,  its  journey  done, 

Lo!  was  stationary; 
And  where  bullets  whistling  fly, 
Came  the  sadder,  fainter  cry, 
"  Help  us,  brothers,  ere  we  die, — 

Save  us,  Sanitary !  " 

Such  the  work.     The  phantom  flies, 
Wrapped  in  battle  clouds  that  rise ; 
But  the  brave — whose  dying  eyes, 

Veiled  and  visionary, 
See  the  jasper  gates  swung  wide, 
See  the  parted  throng  outside — 
Hear  the  voice  to  those  who  ride: 

"  Pass  in,  Sanitary !  " 


WHAT  THE  BULLET  SANG 1 

BY  FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE 

O  joy  of  creation 

To  be! 
O  rapture  to  fly 

And  be  free! 
1  By  permission  of  the  publishers,  H  ought  on,  Mifflin  &  Co. 


THE  WAR  123 

Be  the  battle  lost  or  won, 
Though  its  smoke  shall  hide  the  sun, 
I  shall  find  my  love, — the  one 
Born  for  me! 

I  shall  know  him  where  he  stands, 

All  alone, 
With  the  power  in  his  hands 

Not  o'erthrown ; 
I  shall  know  him  by  his  face, 
By  his  godlike  front  and  grace ; 
I  shall  hold  him  for  a  space, 

All  my  own! 

It  is  he — O  my  love ! 

So  bold! 
It  is  I— all  thy  love 

Foretold ! 

It  is  I.     O  love !  what  bliss ! 
Dost  thou  answer  to  my  kiss  ? 
O  sweetheart!  what  is  this 

Lieth  there  so  cold? 


BATTLE-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC 

BY   JULIA   WARD   HOWE 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the 

Lord: 
He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes  of 

wrath  are  stored ; 


124  MEMORIAL  DAY 

He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  His  terrible 

swift  sword : 
His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I   have   seen   Him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a   hundred 
circling  camps ; 

They  have  builded  Him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews 
and  damps; 

I  can  read  His  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and  flar 
ing  lamps. 
His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ  in  burnished  rows  of 

steel : 
"  As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my 

grace  shall  deal ; 
Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent  with 

his  heel, 
Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never  call 
retreat ; 

He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  His  judg 
ment-seat  : 

Oh!  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him!  be  jubilant,  my 

feet! 
Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the 

sea, 
With  a  glory  in  His  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and 

me: 


THE  WAR  125 

As  He  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men 

free, 
While  God  is  marching  on. 


ALL  QUIET  ALONG  THE  POTOMAC 

BY   ETHEL   LYNN   BEERS 

"  All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say, 

"  Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat  to  and  fro, 

By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 
'Tis  nothing— a  private  or  two  now  and  then 

Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle ; 
Not  an  officer  lost — only  one  of  the  men, 

Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death-rattle." 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming; 
Their  tents  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 

Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fire,  are  gleaming. 
A  tremulous  sigh  of  the  gentle  night-wind. 

Through  the  forest  leaves  softly  is  creeping; 
While  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 

Keep  guard,  for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

There's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread, 
As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 

And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle-bed 
Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 


126  MEMORIAL  DAY 

His  musket  falls  slack ;  his  face,  dark  and  grim, 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep, 

For  their  mother;  may  Heaven  defend  her! 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as  then, 

That  night,  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips — when  low-murmured  vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken. 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 
And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place, 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine-tree, 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary ; 
Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of  light, 

Toward  the  shade  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 
Hark!  was  it  the  night-wind  that  rustled  the  leaves? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle   .    .    .   "Ha!  Mary,  good-by!" 

The  red  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night; 

No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river ; 
While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead — 

The  picket's  off  duty  forever! 


THE  WAR  127 

ORDER  FOR  A  DAY  OF  FASTING 

Headquarters,    Army    Northern 

Virginia, 

August  13,  1 86 j. 

The  President  of  the  Confederate  States  has,  in 
the  name  of  the  people,  appointed  August  2ist  as  a 
day  of  fasting,  humiliation,  and  prayer.  A  strict  ob 
servance  of  the  day  is  enjoined  upon  the  officers  and 
soldiers  of  this  army.  All  military  duties,  except  such 
as  are  absolutely  necessary,  will  be  suspended.  The 
commanding  officers  of  brigades  and  regiments  are  re 
quested  to  cause  divine  services,  suitable  to  the  oc- 
casion^  to  be  performed  in  their  respective  commands. 
Soldiers !  we  have  sinned  against  Almighty  God.  We 
have  forgotten  His  signal  mercies,  and  have  cultivated 
a  jevengeful,  haughty,  and  boastful  spirit.  We  have 
not  remembered  that  the  defenders  of  a  just  cause 
should  be  pure  in  His  eyes ;  that  "  our  times  are  in  His 
hands,"  and  we  have  relied  too  much  on  our  own  arms 
for  the  achievement  of  our  independence.  God  is 
our  only  refuge  and  our  strength.  Let  us  humble  our 
selves  before  Him.  Let  us  confess  our  many  sins,  and 
beseech  Him  to  give  us  a  higher  courage,  and  a  purer 
patriotism,  and  a  more  determined  will;  that  He  will 
convert  the  hearts  of  our  enemies ;  that  He  will  hasten 
the  time  when  war,  with  its  sorrows  and  sufferings, 
shall  cease,  and  that  He  will  give  us  a  name  and  place 
among  the  nations  of  the  earth. 

R.  E.  LEE,  General. 


128  MEMORIAL  DAY 

KEENAN'S  CHARGE 

BY   GEORGE   PARSONS   LATHROP 

I 

The  sun  had  set; 

The  leaves  with  dew  were  wet: 

Down  fell  a  bloody  dusk 

On  the  woods,  that  second  of  May, 

Where   Stonewall's   corps,  like  a  beast  of  prey, 

Tore  through,  with  angry  tusk. 

"  They've  trapped  us,  boys !  " 
Rose  from  our  flank  a  voice. 
With  a  rush  of  steel  and  smoke 
On  came  the  rebels  straight, 
Eager  as  love  and  wild  as  hate ; 
And  our  line  reeled  and  broke: 

Broke  and  fled. 

No  one  stayed — but  the  dead! 

With  curses,  shrieks,  and  cries, 

Horses  and  wagons  and  men 

Tumbled  back  through  the  shuddering  glen, 

And  above  us  the  fading  skies. 

There's  one  hope  still, — 
Those  batteries  parked  on  the  hill! 
"  Battery,  wheel!  "  (mid  the  roar) 
"  Pass  pieces ;  fix  prolonge  to  fire 
Retiring.     Trot !  "     In  the  panic  dire 
A  bugle  rings  "  Trot !  " — and  no  more. 


THE  WAR  129 

The  horses  plunged, 

The  cannon  lurched  and  lunged, 

To  join  the  hopeless  rout. 

But  suddenly  rode  a   form 

Calmly  in  front  of  the  human  storm, 

With  a  stern,  commanding  shout: 

"  Align  those  guns  !  " 

(We  knew  it  was  Pleasanton's.) 

The  cannoneers  bent  to  obey, 

And  worked  with  a  will  at  his  word : 

And  the  black  guns  moved  as  if  they  had  heard. 

But  ah  the  dread  delay ! 

"  To  wait  is  crime ; 
O  God,  for  ten  minutes'  time !  " 
The  General  looked  around. 
There  Keenan  sat,  like  a  stone, 
With  his  three  hundred  horse  alone, 
Less  shaken  than  the  ground. 

"  Major,  your  men?  " 

"  Are  soldiers,  General."     "  Then 

Charge,  Major!     Do  your  best: 

Hold  the  enemy  back,  at  all  cost, 

Till  my  guns  are  placed, — else  the  army  is  lost. 

You  die  to  save  the  rest !  " 

ii 

By  the  shrouded  gleam  of  the  western  skies, 
Brave  Keenan  looked  into  Pleasanton's  eyes 
For  an  instant, — clear,  and  cool,  and  still; 
Then,  with  a  smile,  he  said :  "  I  will." 


130  MEMORIAL  DAY 

"  Cavalry,  charge !  "     Not  a  man  of  them  shrank. 

Their  sharp,  full  cheer,  from  rank  on  rank, 

Rose  joyously,  with  a  willing  breath, — 

Rose  like  a  greeting  hail  to  death. 

Then  forward  they  sprang,  and  spurred  and  clashed ; 

Shouted  the  officers,  crimson-sashed ; 

Rode  well  the  men,  each  brave  as  his  fellow, 

In  their  faded  coats  of  the  blue  and  yellow; 

And  above  in  the  air,  with  an  instinct  true, 

Like  a  bird  of  war  their  pennon  flew. 

With  clank  of   scabbards   and   thunder  of   steeds, 

And  blades  that  shine  like  sunlit  reeds, 

And  strong  brown  faces  bravely  pale 

For  fear  their  proud  attempt  shall  fail, 

Three  hundred  Pennsylvanians  close 

On  twice  ten  thousand  gallant  foes. 

Line  after  line  the  troopers  came 

To  the  edge  of  the  wood  that  was  ringed  with  flame; 

Rode  in  and  sabered  and  shot — and  fell; 

Nor  came  one  back  his  wounds  to  tell. 

And  full  in  the  midst  rose  Keenan,  tall 

In  the  gloom,  like  a  martyr  awaiting  his  fall, 

While  the  circle-stroke  of  his  saber,  swung 

'Round  his  head,  like  a  halo  there,  luminous  hung. 

Line  after  line — ay,  whole  platoons, 

Struck  dead  in  their  saddles — of  brave  dragoons 

By  the  maddened  horses  were  onward  borne 

And  into  the  vortex  flung,  trampled  and  torn ; 

As  Keenan  fought  with  his  men,  side  by  side. 

So  they  rode,  till  there  were  no  more  to  ride. 


THE  WAR  131 

But  over  them,  lying  there,  shattered  and  mute, 
What  deep  echo  rolls? — Tis  a  death-salute 
From  the  cannon  in  place ;  for,  heroes,  you  braved 
Your  fate  not  in  vain :  the  army  was  saved ! 

Over  them  now — year  following  year — 

Over  their  graves  the  pine-cones  fall, 

And  the  whippoorwill  chants  his  specter-call; 

But  they  stir  not  again ;  they  raise  no  cheer ; 

They  have  ceased.     But  their  glory  shall  never  cease, 

Nor  their  light  be  quenched  in  the  light  of  peace. 

The  rush  of  their  charge  is  resounding  still 

That  saved  the  army  at  Chancellorsville. 


LEE  TO  THE  REAR 

BY   JOHN   R.   THOMPSON 

(During  the  battles  in  the  Wilderness  at  the  beginning  of 
the  campaign  of  1864,  General  Robert  E.  Lee,  impressed 
with  the  desperate  necessity  of  carrying  a  certain  peculiarly 
difficult  position,  seized  the  colors  of  a  Texas  regiment  and 
undertook  to  lead  the  perilous  assault  in  person.  The  troops 
and  their  colonel  remonstrated  with  vehemence,  the  colonel, 
in  his  men's  behalf,  pledging  the  regiment  to  carry  the  posi 
tion  if  General  Lee  would  retire.  The  troops  advanced  to 
the  charge  shouting  "Lee  to  the  Rear!"  as  a  sort  of  battle 
cry. — From  American  War  Ballads  and  Lyrics.) 

Dawn  of  a  pleasant  morning  in  May 
Broke  through  the  Wilderness  cool  and  gray; 
While  perched  in  the  tallest  treetops,  the  birds 
Were      caroling      Mendelssohn's      "  Songs      without 
Words." 


132  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Far  from  the  haunts  of  men  remote, 
The  brook  brawled  on  with  a  liquid  note ; 
And  Nature,  all  tranquil  and  lovely,  wore 
The  smile  of  the  spring,  as  in  Eden  of  yore. 

Little  by  little,  as  daylight  increased, 

And  deepened  the  roseate  flush  in  the  East — 

Little  by  little  did  morning  reveal 

Two  long  glittering  lines  of  steel ; 

Where  two  hundred  thousand  bayonets  gleam, 
Tipped  with  the  light  of  the  earliest  beam, 
The  faces  are  sullen  and  grim  to  see 
In  the  hostile  armies  of  Grant  and  Lee. 

All  of  a  sudden,  ere  rose  the  sun, 
Pealed  on  the  silence  the  opening  gun — 
A  little  white  puff  of  smoke  there  came, 
And  anon  the  valley  was  wreathed  in  flame. 

Down  on  the  left  of  the  Rebel  lines, 
Where  a  breastwork  stands  in  a  copse  of  pines, 
Before  the  Rebels  their  ranks  can  form, 
The  Yankees  have  carried  the  place  by  storm. 

Stars  and  Stripes  on  the  salient  wave, 
Where  many  a  hero  has  found  a  grave, 
And  the  gallant  Confederates  strive  in  vain 
The  ground  they  have  drenched  with  their  blood  to 
regain. 

Yet   louder   the   thunder   of   battler   roared — 
Yet  a  deadlier  fire  on  the  columns  poured; 


THE  WAR  133 

Slaughter  infernal  rode  with  Despair, 
Furies  twain,  through  the  murky  air. 

Not  far  off,  in  the  saddle  there  sat 
A  gray-bearded  man  in  a  black  slouched  hat ; 
Not  much  moved  by  the  fire  was  he, 
Calm  and  resolute  Robert  Lee. 

Quick  and  watchful  he  kept  his  eye 

On  the  bold  Rebel  brigades  close  by, — 

Reserves  that  were  standing  (and  dying)  at  ease, 

While  the  tempest  of  wrath  toppled  over  the  trees. 

For  still  with  their  loud,  deep,  bulldog  bay, 
The  Yankee  batteries  blazed  away, 
And  with  every  murderous  second  that  sped 
A  dozen  brave  fellows,  alas !  fell  dead. 

The  grand  old  graybeard  rode  to  the  space 
Where  Death  and  his  victims  stood  face  to  face, 
And  silently  waved  his  old  slouched  hat — 
A  world  of  meaning  there  was  in  that! 

"Follow  me!     Steady!     We'll  save  the  day!" 
This  was  what  he  seemed  to  say; 
And  to  the  light  of  his  glorious  eye 
The  bold  brigades  thus  made  reply: 

"  We'll  go  forward,  but  you  must  go  back  " — 
And  they  moved  not  an  inch  in  the  perilous  track; 
"  Go  to  the  rear,  and  we'll  send  them  to  hell !  " 
And  the  sound  of  the  battle  was  lost  in  their  yell. 


134  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Turning  his  bridle,  Robert  Lee 
Rode  to  the  rear.     Like  waves  of  the  sea, 
Bursting  the  dykes  in  their  overflow, 
Madly  his  veterans  dashed  on  the  foe. 

And  backward  in  terror  that  foe  was  driven, 
Their  banners  rent  and  their  columns  riven, 
Wherever  the  tide  of  battle  rolled 
Over  the  Wilderness,  wood  and  wold. 

Sunset  out  of  a  crimson  sky 
Streamed  o'er  a  field  of  ruddier  dye, 
And  the  brook  ran  on  with  a  purple  stain, 
From  the  blood  of  ten  thousand  foemen  slain. 

Seasons  have  passed  since  that  day  and  year — 
Again  o'er  its  pebbles  the  brook  runs  clear, 
And  the  field  in  a  richer  green  is  drest, 
Where  the  dead  of  a  terrible  conflict  rest. 

Hushed  is  the  roll  of  the  Rebel  drum, 

The  sabers  are  sheathed,  and  the  cannon  are  dumb ; 

And  Fate,  with  his  pitiless  hand,  has  furled 

The  flag  that  once  challenged  the  gaze  of  the  world  ; 

But  the  fame  of  the  Wilderness  fight  abides ; 
And  down  into  history  grandly  rides, 
Calm  and  unmoved  as  in  battle  he  sat, 
The  gray-bearded  man  in  the  black  slouched  hat. 

(Southern.) 


THE  WAR  135 

RE-ENLISTED  * 

May,  1864 

BY    LUCY    LARCOM 

O  did  you  see  him  in  the  street,  dressed  up  in  army- 
blue, 

When  drums  and  trumpets  into  town  their  storm  of 
music  threw — 

A  louder  tune  than  all  the  winds  could  muster  in  the 
air, 

The  Rebel  winds,  that  tried  so  hard  our  flag  in  strips 
to  tear? 

You  didn't  mind  him?  Oh,  you  looked  beyond  him 
then,  perhaps, 

To  see  the  mounted  officers,  rigged  out  with  trooper- 
caps, 

And  shiny  clothes,  and  sashes,  and  epaulets  and  all ; 

It  wasn't  for  such  things  as  these  he  heard  his  country 
call. 

She  asked  for  men;  and  up  he  spoke,  my  handsome, 

hearty  Sam, 
"  I'll  die  for  the  dear  old  Union,  if  she'll  take  me  as 

I  am." 
And  if  a  better  man  than  he  there's  mother  that  can 

show, 
From  Maine  to  Minnesota,  then  let  the  nation  know! 

1  By  permission  of  the  publishers,  Houghton,  Mifftin  &  Co. 


136  MEMORIAL  DAY 

You  would  not  pick  him  from  the  rest  by  eagles  or 
by  stars, 

By  straps  upon  his  coat-sleeve,  or  gold  or  silver  bars ; 

Nor  a  corporal's  strip  of  worsted;  but  there's  some 
thing  in  his  face, 

And  something  in  his  even  step,  a-marching  in  his 
place, 

That  couldn't  be  improved  by  all  the  badges  in  the 

land: 
A  patriot,  and  a  good,  strong  man ;  are  generals  much 

more  grand? 
We  rest  our  pride  on  that  big  heart  wrapped  up  in 

army-blue, 
The  girl  he  loves,  Mehitabel,  and  I,  who  love  him  too. 

He's  never  shirked  a  battle  yet,  though  frightful  risks 
he's  run, 

Since  treason  flooded  Baltimore,  the  spring  of  Sixty- 
One; 

Through  blood  and  storm  he's  held  out  firm,  nor  fret 
ted  once,  my  Sam, 

At  swamps  of  Chickahominy,  or  fields  of  Antietam. 

Though  many  a  time,  he's  told  us,  when  he  saw  them 

lying  dead, 
The  boys  that  came  from  Newburyport,  and  Lynn, 

and  Marblehead, 
Stretched  out  upon  the  trampled  turf,  and  wept  on  by 

the  sky, 
It  seemed  to  him  the  Commonwealth  had  drained  her 

life-blood  dry. 


THE  WAR  137 

"  But  then,"  he  said,  "  the  more's  the  need  the  coun 
try  has  of  me : 

To  live  and  fight  the  war  all  through,  what  glory  it 
will  be! 

The  Rebel  balls  don't  hit  me;  and,  mother,  if  they 
should, 

You'll  know  I've  fallen  in  my  place,  where  I  have 
always  stood." 

He's   taken   out   his   furlough,   and   short  enough   it 

seemed : 

I  often  tell  Mehitabel  he'll  think  he  only  dreamed 
Of  walking  with  her  nights  so  bright  you  couldn't  see 

a  star, 
And  hearing  the  swift  tide  come  in  across  the  harbor 

bar. 

The  Stars  that  shine  above  the  Stripes,  they  light  him 

southward  now; 
The  tide  of  war  has  swept  him  back;  he's  made  a 

solemn  vow 
To  build  himself  no  home-nest  till  his  country's  work 

is  done; 
God  bless  the  vow,  and  speed  the  work,  my  patriot, 

my  son! 

And  yet  it  is  a  pretty  place   where  his  new  house 

might  be; 
An  orchard-road  that  leads  your  eye  straight  out  upon 

the  sea. 
The  boy  not  work  his  father's  farm?  it  seems  almost 

a  shame ; 
But  any  selfish  plan  for  him  he's  never  let  me  name. 


138  MEMORIAL  DAY 

He's  re-enlisted  for  the  war,  for  victory  or  for  death ! 

A  soldier's  grave,  perhaps! — the  thought  has  half 
way  stopped  my  breath, 

And  driven  a  cloud  across  the  sun; — my  boy,  it  will 
not  be! 

The  war  will  soon  be  over ;  home  again  you'll  come  to 
me! 

He's  re-enlisted:  and  I  smiled  to  see  him  going,  too! 

There's  nothing  that  becomes  him  half  so  well  as 
army-blue. 

Only  a  private  in  the  ranks !  but  sure  I  am  indeed, 

If  all  the  privates  were  like  him,  they'd  scarcely  cap 
tains  need. 

And  I,  and  Massachusetts  share  the  honor  of  his  birth : 
The  grand  old  State !  to  me  the  best  in  all  the  peopled 

earth ! 

I  cannot  hold  a  musket,  but  I  have  a  son  who  can ; 
And  I'm  proud  for  Freedom's  sake  to  be  the  mother 

of  a  man! 


REVEILLE 

BY    MICHAEL   O'CONNOR 

The  morning  is  cheery,  my  boys,  arouse ! 
The  dew  shines  bright  on  the  chestnut  boughs, 
And  the  sleepy  mist  on  the  river  lies, 
Though  the  east  is  flushing  with  crimson  dyes, 


THE  WAR  139 

Awake !  awake !  awake  ! 

O'er  field  and  wood  and  brake, 
With  glories  newly  born, 

Comes  on  the  blushing  morn. 
Awake !  awake ! 

You  have   dreamed  of  your  homes  and   friends  all 

night  ; 

You  have  basked  in  your  sweethearts'  smiles  so  bright ; 
Come,  part  with  them  all  for  a  while  again, — 
Be  lovers  in  dreams ;  when  awake,  be  men. 
Turn  out !  turn  out !  turn  out ! 

You  have  dreamed  full  long,  I  know. 
Turn  out!  turn  out!  turn  out! 
The  east  is  all  aglow. 
Turn  out !  turn  out ! 

From  every  valley  and  hill  there  come 
The  clamoring  voices  of  fife  and  drum; 
And  out  in  the  fresh,  cool  morning  air 
The  soldiers  are  swarming  everywhere. 
Fall  in!  fall  in!  fall  in! 

Every  man  in  his  place, 
Fall  in !  fall  in !  fall  in ! 
Each  with  a  cheerful  face, 
Fall  in !  fall  in ! 


I4o  MEMORIAL  DAY 

FARRAGUT 
Mobile  Bay,  August  $,  1864 

BY  WILLIAM  TUCKEY  MEREDITH 

Farragut,  Farragut, 

Old  Heart  of  Oak, 
Daring  Dave  Farragut, 

Thunderbolt  stroke, 
Watches  the  hoary  mist 

Lift  from  the  bay, 
Till  his  flag,  glory-kissed, 

Greets  the  young  day. 

Far,  by  gray  Morgan's  walls, 

Looms  the  black  fleet. 
Hark,  deck  to  rampart  calls 

With  the  drums'  beat ! 
Buoy  your  chains  overboard, 

While  the  steam  hums; 
Men !  to  the  battlement, 

Farragut  comes. 

See,  as  the  hurricane 

Hurtles  in  wrath 
Squadrons  of  clouds  amain 

Back  from  its  path! 
Back  to  the  parapet, 

To  the  guns'  lips, 
Thunderbolt  Farragut 

Hurls  the  black  ships. 


THE  WAR  141 

Now  through  the  battle's  roar 

Clear  the  boy  sings, 
"  By  the  mark  fathoms  four," 

While  his  lead  swings. 
Steady  the  wheelmen  five 

"  Nor'  by  East  keep  her," 
"  Steady,"  but  two  alive ; 

How  the  shells  sweep  her! 

Lashed  to  the  mast  that  sways 

Over  red  decks, 
Over  the  flame  that  plays 

Round  the  torn  wrecks, 
Over  the  dying  lips 

Framed  for  a  cheer, 
Farragut  leads  his  ships, 

Guides  the  line  clear. 

On  by  heights  cannon-browed, 

While  the  spars  quiver; 
Onward  still  flames  the  cloud 

Where  the  hulks  shiver. 
See,  yon  fort's  star  is  set, 

Storm  and  fire  past. 
Cheer  him,  lads — Farragut, 

Lashed  to  the  mast! 

Oh !  while  Atlantic's  breast 

Bears  a  white  sail, 
While  the  Gulf's  towering  crest 

Tops  a  green  vale, 


142  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Men  thy  bold  deeds  shall  tell, 
Old  Heart  of  Oak, 

Daring  Dave  Farragut, 
Thunderbolt  stroke ! 


DRIVING  HOME  THE  COWS 

BY  KATE  PUTNAM   OSGOOD 

Out  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass 
He  turned  them  into  the  river-lane; 

One  after  another  he  let  them  pass, 
Then  fastened  the  meadow-bars  again. 

Under  the  willows,  and  over  the  hill, 
He  patiently  followed  their  sober  pace; 

The  merry  whistle  for  once  was  still, 

And  something  shadowed  the  sunny  face. 

Only  a  boy !  and  his  father  had  said 
He  never  could  let  his  youngest  go : 

Two  already  were  lying  dead 

Under  the  feet  of  the  trampling  foe. 

But  after  the  evening  work  was  done, 

And  the  frogs  were  loud  in  the  meadow-swamp, 
Over  his  shoulder  he  slung  his  gun 

And  stealthily  followed  the  foot-path  damp. 

Across  the  clover,  and  through  the  wheat, 
With  resolute  heart  and  purpose  grim, 


THE  WAR  143 

Though  cold  was  the  dew  on  his  hurrying  feet 
And  the  blind  bat's  flitting  startled  him. 

Thrice  since  then  had  the  lanes  been  white, 
And  the  orchards  sweet  with  apple-bloom ; 

And  now,  when  the  cows  came  back  at  night, 
The  feeble  father  drove  them  home. 

For  news  had  come  to  the  lonely  farm 
That  three  were  lying  where  two  had  lain ; 

And  the  old  man's  tremulous,  palsied  arm 
Could  never  lean  on  a  son's  again. 

The  summer  day  grew  cool  and  late, 

He  went  for  the  cows  when  the  work  was  done; 
But  down  the  lane,  as  he  opened  the  gate, 

He  saw  them  coming  one  by  one : 

Brindle,  Ebony,  Speckle,  and  Bess, 

Shaking  their  horns  in  the  evening  wind ; 

Cropping  the  buttercups  out  of  the  grass — 
But  who  was  it  following  close  behind? 

Loosely  swung  in  the  idle  air 

The  empty  sleeve  of  army  blue ; 
And  worn  and  pale,  from  the  crisping  hair, 

Looked  out  a  face  that  the  father  knew. 

For  Southern  prisons  will  sometimes  yawn, 
And  yield  their  dead  unto  life  again; 

And  the  day  that  comes  with  a  cloudy  dawn 
In  golden  glory  at  last  may  wane. 


144  MEMORIAL  DAY 

The  great  tears  sprang  to  their  meeting  eyes ; 

For  the  heart  must  speak  when  the  lips  are  dumb 
And  under  the  silent  evening  skies 

Together  they  followed  the  cattle  home. 


SHERIDAN'S  RIDE1 
October  19,  1864 

BY  THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ 

Up  from  the  South  at  break  of  day, 
Bringing  to  Winchester   fresh  dismay, 
The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 
Like  a  herald  in  haste,  to  the  chieftain's  door, 
The  terrible  grumble,  and  rumble,  and  roar, 
Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 
Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar ; 
And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled 
The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontrolled, 
Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold, 
As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 
A  good  broad  highway  leading  down  ; 

1  By  courtesy  of  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co. 


THE  WAR  145 

And  there,  through  the  flash  of  the  morning  light, 

A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night 

Was  seen  to  pass  as  with  eagle  flight ; 

As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need, 

He  stretched  away  with  the  utmost  speed; 

Hills  rose  and  fell — but  his  heart  was  gay, 

With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 

Still  sprung  from  those  swift  hoofs,  thundering  South, 

The  dust,  like  smoke  from  the  cannon's  mouth ; 

On  the  tail  of  a  comet,  sweeping  faster  and  faster, 

Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster. 

The  heart  of  the  steed  and  the  heart  of  the  master 

Were  beating  like  prisoners  assaulting  their  walls, 

Impatient  to  be  where  the  battlefield  calls  ; 

Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to  full  play, 

With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

Under  his  spurning  feet  the  road 

Like  a  narrowy  Alpine  river  flowed, 

And  the  landscape  flowed  away  behind, 

Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind  ; 

And  the  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace  ire, 

Swept  on  with  his  wild  eyes  full  of  fire ; 

But  lo !  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire, 

He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 

With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

The  first  that  the  General  saw  were  the  groups 
Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating  troops. 
What  was  done?  what  to  do?     A  glance  told  him  both. 
Then,  striking  his  spurs,  with  a  terrible  oath, 


146  MEMORIAL  DAY 

He  dashed  down  the  line,  'mid  a  storm  of  huzzas, 
And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its  course  there,  be 
cause 

The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause. 
With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black  charger  was  gray ; 
By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  the  red  nostril's  play, 
He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say, 
"  I  have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the  way 
From  Winchester  down  to  save  the  day !  " 

Hurrah!  hurrah  for  Sheridan! 
Hurrah!  hurrah  for  horse  and  man! 
And  when  their  statues  are  place/i  on  high 
Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky, 
The  American  soldier's  Temple  of  Fame, — 
There  with  the  glorious  General's  name, 
Be  it  said,  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright, 
"  Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 
By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight, 
From  Winchester,  twenty  miles  away !  " 


"  HE'LL  SEE  IT  WHEN  HE  WAKES  " 

BY  FRANK  LEE 

[In  "Bugle  Echoes"  Mr.  Francis  F.  Browne  introduces  this 
poem  with  the  following  note :  "  In  one  of  the  battles  in  Vir 
ginia  a  gallant  young  Mississippian  had  fallen,  and  at  night, 
just  before  burying  him,  there  came  a  letter  from  his  be 
trothed.  One  of  the  burial  group  took  the  letter  and  laid  it 
upon  the  breast  of  the  dead  soldier,  with  the  words :  '  Bury  it 
with  him.  He'll  see  it  when  he  wakes.' "] 

Amid  the  clouds  of  battle-smoke 
The  sun  had  died  away, 


THE  WAR  147 

And  where  the  storm  of  battle  broke 

A  thousand  warriors  lay. 
A  band  of  friends  upon  the  field 

Stood  round  a  youthful  form 
Who,  when  the  war-cloud's  thunder  pealed, 

Had  perished  in  the  storm. 
Upon  his  forehead,  on  his  hair, 

The  coming  moonlight  breaks, 
And  each  dear  brother  standing  there 

A  tender  farewell  takes. 

But  ere  they  laid  him  in  his  home 

There  came  a  comrade  near, 
And  gave  a  token  that  had  come 

From  her  the  dead  held  dear. 
A  moment's  doubt  upon  them  pressed, 

Then  one  the  letter  takes, 
And  lays  it  low  upon  his  breast — 

"  He'll  see  it  when  he  wakes." 
O  thou  who  dost  in  sorrow  wait, 

Whose  heart  with  anguish  breaks, 
Though  thy  dear  message  came  too  late, 

"  He'll  see  it  when  he  wakes." 

No  more  amid  the  fiery  storm 

Shall  his  strong  arm  be  seen ; 
No  more  his  young  and  manly  form 

Tread  Mississippi's  green; 
And  e'en  thy  tender  words  of  love — 

The  words  affection  speaks — 
Came  all  too  late ;  but  oh !  thy  love 

"  Will  see  them  when  he  wakes." 


148  MEMORIAL  DAY 

No  jars  disturb  his  gentle  rest, 
No  noise  his  slumber  breaks, 

But  thy  words  sleep  upon  his  breast — 
"  He'll  see  them  when  he  wakes." 

(Southern.) 


SPRING  AT  THE  CAPITAL 

BY    ELIZABETH    AKERS    ALLEN 

The  poplar  drops  beside  the  way 
Its  tasseled  plumes  of  silver  gray ; 
The  chestnut  points  its  great  brown  buds,  impatient 
for  the  laggard  May. 

The  honeysuckles  lace  the  wall ; 
The  hyacinths  grow  fair  and  tall; 
And  mellow  sun,  and  pleasant  wind,  and  odorous  bees 
are  over  all. 

Down-looking  in  this  snow-white  bud, 
How  distant  seems  the  war's  red  flood! 
How  far  remote  the  streaming  wounds,  the  sickening 
scent  of  human  blood ! 

For  Nature  does  not  recognize 
This  strife  that  rends  the  earth  and  skies; 
No  war-dreams  vex  the  winter's  sleep  of  clover-heads 
and  daisy-eyes. 


THE  WAR  149 

She  holds  her  even  way  the  same, 
Though  navies  sink,  or  cities  flame  : 
A  snowdrop  is  a  snowdrop  still,  despite  the  Nation's 
joy  or  shame. 

When  blood  her  grassy  altar  wets, 
She  sends  the  pitying  violets 

To  heal  the  outrage  with  their  bloom,  and  cover  it 
with  soft  regrets. 

O  crocuses  with  rain-wet  eyes, 
O    tender-lipped   anemones, 

What  do  you  know  of  agony,  and  death,  and  blood- 
won  victories? 

No  shudder  breaks  your  sunshine  trance, 
Though  near  you  rolls,  with  slow  advance, 
Clouding  your  shining  leaves  with  dust,  the  anguish- 
laden  ambulance. 

Yonder  a  white  encampment  hums ; 
The  clash  of  martial  music  comes ; 
And  now  your  startled  stems  are  all  a-tremble  with  the 
jar  of  drums. 

Whether  it  lessen  or  increase, 
Or  whether  trumpets  shout  or  cease, 
Still,  deep  within  your  tranquil  hearts,  the  happy  bees 
are  humming,  "  Peace !  " 

O  flowers !  the  soul  that  faints  or  grieves 
New  comfort  from  your  lips  receives; 
Sweet  confidence  and  patient  faith  are  hidden  in  your 
healing  leaves. 


150  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Help  us  to  trust  still  on  and  on, 
That  this  dark  night  will  soon  be  gone, 
And    that   these   battle-stains   are   but   the   blood-red 
trouble   of   the   dawn, — 

Dawn  of  a  broader,  whiter  day 
Then  ever  blessed  us  with  its  ray, — 
A    dawn    beneath    whose    purer    light    all    guilt   and 
wrong  shall  fade  away. 

Then  shall  our  Nation  break  its  bands, 
And,  silencing  the  envious  lands, 
Stand  in  the  searching  light  unshamed,  with  spotless 
robe,  and  clean,  white  hands. 


ARMY  CORRESPONDENT'S  LAST  RIDE 
Five  Forks,  April  i,  1865 

BY  GEORGE  ALFRED  TOWNSEND 

Ho!  pony.     Down  the  lonely  road 

Strike  now  your  cheeriest  pace! 
The  woods  on  fire  do  not  burn  higher 

Than  burns  my  anxious  face ; 
Far  have  you  sped,  but  all  this  night 

Must  feel  my  nervous  spur; 
If  we  be  late,  the  world  must  wait 

The  tidings  we  aver: — 


THE  WAR  151 

To  home  and  hamlet,  town  and  hearth, 

To  thrill  child,  mother,  man, 
I  carry  to  the  waiting  North 

Great  news  from  Sheridan ! 

The  birds  are  dead  among  the  pines, 

Slain  by  the  battle  fright, 
Prone  in  the  road  the  steed  reclines 

That  never  reached  the  fight ; 
Yet  on  we  go, — the  wreck  below 

Of  many  a  tumbled  wain, — 
By  ghastly  pools  where  stranded  mules 

Die,  drinking  of  the  rain; 
With  but  my  list  of  killed  and  missed 

I  spur  my  stumbling  nag, 
To  tell  of  death  at  many  a  tryst, 

But  victory  to  the  flag! 

"  Halt !  who  comes  there  ?    The  countersign !  " — 

"  A  friend."— "  Advance !     The  fight,— 
How  goes  it,  say?  " — "  We  won  the  day!  " — 

"  Huzza !    Pass    on  !  "— "  Good-night !  "— 
And  parts  the  darkness  on  before, 

And  down  the  mire  we  tramp, 
And  the  black  sky  is  painted  o'er 

With  many  a  pulsing  camp; 
O'er  stumps  and  ruts,  by  ruined  huts, 

Where  ghosts  look  through  the  gloam, — 
Behind  my  tread  I  hear  the  dead 

Follow  the  news  toward  home ! 

The  hunted  souls  I  see  behind, 
In  swamp  and  in  ravine, 


152  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Whose  cry  for  mercy  thrills  the  wind 

Till  cracks  the  sure  carbine; 
The  moving  lights,  which  scare  the  dark, 

And  show  the  trampled  place 
Where,  in  his  blood,  some  mother's  bud 

Turns  up  his  young,  dead  face; 
The  captives  spent,  whose  standards  rent 

The  conqueror  parades, 
As  at  the  Five  Forks  roads  arrive 

The  General's  dashing  aides. 

0  wondrous  Youth!  through  this  grand  ruth 
Runs  my  boy's  life  its  thread; 

The  General's  fame,  the  battle's  name, 
The  rolls  of  maimed  and  dead 

1  bear,  with  my  thrilled  soul  astir, 
And  lonely  thoughts  and  fears, 

And  am  but  History's  courier 
To  bind  the  conquering  years ; 

A  battle-ray,  through  ages  gray 
To  light  to  deeds  sublime, 

And  flash  the  luster  of  this  day 
Down  all  the  aisles  of  Time ! 

Ho !  pony, — 'tis  the  signal  gun 

The  night-assault  decreed; 
On  Petersburg  the  thunderbolts 

Crash  from  the  lines  of  Meade; 
Fade  the  pale,   frightened  stars  overhead, 

And  shrieks  the  bursting  air ; 
The  forest  foliage,  tinted  red, 

Grows  ghastlier  in  the  glare ; 


THE  WAR  153 

Though  in  her  towers,  reached  her  last  hours, 

Rocks  proud  Rebellion's  crest — 
The  world  may  sag,  if  but  my  nag 

Get  in  before  the  rest! 

With  bloody  flank,  and  fetlocks  dank, 

And  goad,  and  lash,  and  shout — 
Great  God!  as  every  hoof-beat  falls 

A  hundred  lives  beat  out! 
As  weary  as  this  broken  steed 

Reels  down  the  corduroys, 
So,  weary,  fight  for  morning  light 

Our  hot  and  grimy  boys; 
Through  ditches  wet,  o'er  parapet 

And  guns  barbette,  they  catch 
The  last,  lost  breach;  and  I, — I  reach 

The  mail  with  my  dispatch! 

Sure  it  shall  speed,  the  land  to  read, 

As  sped  the  happiest  shell! 
The  shot  I  send  strike  the  world's  end; 

This  tells  my  pony's  knell; 
His  long  race  run,  the  long  war  done, 

My  occupation  gone, — 
Above  his  bier,  prone  on  the  pier, 

The  vultures  fleck  the  dawn. 
Still,  rest  his  bones  where  soldiers  dwell, 

Till  the  Long  Roll  they  catch. 
He  fell  the  day  that  Richmond  fell, 

And  took  the  first  dispatch ! 


154  MEMORIAL  DAY 

LEE'S  FINAL  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  SOLDIERS 

Dated  April  10,  1865,  the  Day  After  the  Surrender  at 
Appomattox 

After  four  years  of  arduous  service,  marked  by 
unsurpassed  courage  and  fortitude,  the  Army  of 
Northern  Virginia  has  been  compelled  to  yield  to 
overwhelming  numbers  and  resources.  I  need  not 
tell  the  survivors  of  so  many  hard-fought  battles,  who 
have  remained  steadfast  to  the  last,  that  I  have  con 
sented  to  this  result  from  no  distrust  of  them;  but, 
feeling  that  valor  and  devotion  could  accomplish 
nothing  that  could  compensate  for  the  loss  that  would 
have  attended  the  continuation  of  the  contest,  I  have 
determined  to  avoid  the  useless  sacrifice  of  those 
whose  past  services  have  endeared  them  to  their  coun 
trymen.  By  the  terms  of  the  agreement,  officers  and 
men  can  return  to  their  homes  and  remain  there  until 
exchanged.  You  will  take  with  you  the  satisfaction 
that  proceeds  from  the  consciousness  of  duty  faith 
fully  performed;  and  I  earnestly  pray  that  a  merciful 
God  will  extend  to  you  His  blessing  and  protection. 
With  an  increasing  admiration  of  your  constancy  and 
devotion  to  your  country,  and  a  grateful  remembrance 
of  your  kind  and  generous  consideration  of  myself, 
I  bid  an  affectionate  farewell. 

R.  E.  LEE,  General. 


THE  WAR  155 

THE"CONFLICT  ENDED 


BY    CHARLES   DEVENS 


From  an  Address  Delivered  at  Charlcstown,  Mass., 
June  17, 


The  conflict  is  over  !  Day  by  day  the  material  evi 
dences  of  war  fade  from  sight  ;  the  bastions  sink  to  the 
level  of  the  ground  which  surrounded  them  ;  scarp 
and  counterscarp  meet  in  the  ditch  which  divided 
them.  So  let  them  pass  away,  forever  ! 

To-day  it  is  the  highest  duty  of  all,  no  matter  on 
what  side  they  were,  but,  above  all,  of  those  who  have 
struggled  for  the  preservation  of  the  Union,  to  strive 
that  it  become  one  of  generous  confidence,  in  which 
all  the  States  shall,  as  of  old,  stand  shoulder  to  shoul 
der,  if  need  be,  against  the  world  in  arms.  Towards 
those  with  whom  we  were  lately  in  conflict,  and  who 
recognize  that  the  results  are  to  be  kept  inviolate,  there 
should  be  no  feeling  of  resentment  or  bitterness.  They 
join  with  us  in  the  wish  to  make  of  this  regenerated 
Union  a  power  grander  and  more  august  than  the 
founders  ever  dared  to  hope. 

All  true  men  are  with  the  South  in  demanding  for 
her,  peace,  order,  good  and  honest  governments,  and 
encouraging  in  her  the  work  of  rebuilding  all  that  has 
been  made  desolate.  We  need  not  doubt  the  issue. 
With  the  fire  of  her  ancient  courage,  she  will  gird  her 
self  up  to  the  emergencies  of  her  new  situation.  Stand 
ing  always  in  generous  remembrance  of  every  sec- 


156  MEMORIAL  DAY 

tion  of  the  Union,  neither  now  nor  hereafter  will  we 
distinguish  between  States  or  sections,  in  our  anxiety 
for  the  glory  and  happiness  of  all.  Together  will  we 
utter  our  solemn  aspiration,  in  the  spirit  of  the  motto 
of  the  city  which  now  incloses  within  its  limits  the 
battle-field  and  town  for  which  the  battle  was  fought : 
"  As  God  was  to  our  fathers,  so  may  He  be  to  us." 


SECOND  REVIEW  OF  THE  GRAND  ARMY 

BY   FRANCIS   BRET   HARTE 

I  read  last  night  of  the  Grand  Review 

In  Washington's  chiefest  avenue — 
Two  Hundred  Thousand  men  in  blue, 

I   think  they   said   was   the   number, — 
Till  I  seemed  to  hear  their  trampling  feet, 
The  bugle  blast  and  the  drum's  quick  beat, 
The  clatter  of  hoofs  in  the  stony  street, 
The  cheers  of  people  who  came  to  greet, 
And  the  thousand  details  that  to  repeat 

Would  only  my  verse  encumber, — 
Till  I  fell  in  a  revery,  sad  and  sweet, 

And  then  to  a  fitful  slumber. 

When,  lo!  in  a  vision  I  seemed  to  stand 
In  the  lonely  Capitol.     On  each  hand 
Far  stretched  the  portico;  dim  and  grand 
Its  columns  ranged,  like  a  martial  band 
Of  sheeted  specters  whom  some  command 
Had  called  to  a  last  reviewing. 


THE  WAR  157 

And  the  streets  of  the  city  were  white  and  bare, 
No  footfall  echoed  across  the  square; 
But  out  of  the  misty  midnight  air 
I  heard  in  the  distance  a  trumpet  blare, 
And  the  wandering  night-winds  seemed  to  bear 
The  sound  of  a  far  tattooing. 

Then  I  held  my  breath  with  fear  and  dread; 
For  into  the  square,  with  a  brazen  tread, 
There  rode  a  figure  whose  stately  head 

O'erlooked  the  review  that  morning, 
That  never  bowed  from  its  firm-set  seat 
When  the  living  column  passed  its  feet, 
Yet  now  rode  steadily  up  the  street 

To  the  phantom  bugle's  warning: 

Till  it  reached  the  Capitol  square,  and  wheeled, 
And  there  in  the  moonlight  stood  revealed 
A  well-known  form  that  in  state  and  field 

Had  led  our  patriot  sires; 
Whose  face  was  turned  to  the  sleeping  camp, 
Afar  through  the  river's  fog  and  damp, 
That  showed  no  flicker,  nor  waning  lamp, 

Nor  wasted  bivouac  fires. 

And  I  saw  a  phantom  army  come, 
With  never  a  sound  of  fife  or  drum, 
But  keeping  time  to  a  throbbing  hum 

Of  wailing  and  lamentation : 
The  martyred  heroes  of  Malvern  Hill, 
Of  Gettysburg  and  Chancellorsville, 
The  men  whose  wasted  figures  fill 

The  patriot  graves  of  the  Nation. 


158  MEMORIAL  DAY 

And  there  came  the  nameless  dead, — the  men 
Who  perished  in  fever-swamp  and  fen, 
The  slowly-starved  of  the  prison-pen; 

And,  marching  beside  the  others, 
Came  the  dusky  martyrs  of  Pillow's  fight, 
With  limbs  enfranchised  and  bearing  bright: 
I  thought — perhaps  'twas  the  pale  moonlight- 

They  looked  as  white  as  their  brothers ! 

And  so  all  night  marched  the  Nation's  dead, 
With  never  a  banner  above  them  spread, 
Nor  a  badge,  nor  a  motto  brandished ; 
No  mark — save  the  bare  uncovered  head 

Of  the  silent  bronze  Reviewer; 
With  never  an  arch  save  the  vaulted  sky; 
With  never  a  flower  save  those  that  lie 
On  the  distant  graves — for  love  could  buy 

No  gift  that  was  purer  or  truer. 

So  all  night  long  swept  the  strange  array; 
So  all  night  long,  till  the  morning,  gray, 
I  watch 'd  for  one  who  had  passed  away, 

With  a  reverent  awe  and  wonder, — 
Till  a  blue  cap  waved  in  the  lengthening  line, 
And  I  knew  that  one  who  was  kin  of  mine 
Had  come;  and  I  spake — and  lo!  that  sign 

Awakened  me  from  my  slumber. 


THE  WAR  159 

MARCHING  THROUGH  GEORGIA 

BY   H.    C.    WORK 

Bring  the  good  old  bugle,  boys;  we'll  sing  another 

song,— 

Sing  it  with  a  spirit  that  will  start  the  world  along,— 
Sing  it  as  we  used  to  sing  it,  fifty  thousand  strong, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia. 

Chorus. 

Hurrah,  hurrah!  we  bring  the  jubilee! 
Hurrah,  hurrah !  the  flag  that  makes  you  free ! 
So  we  sang  the  chorus  from  Atlanta  to  the  sea, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia. 

How  the  darkies  shouted  when  they  heard  the  joyful 

sound ! 
How    the    turkeys    gobbled    which    our    commissary 

found ! 

How  the  sweet  potatoes  even  started  from  the  ground, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia! 

Cho. 

Yes,  and  there  were  Union  men  who  wept  with  joyful 

tears 
When  they  saw  the  honored  flag  they  had  not  seen  for 

years ; 
Hardly  could  they  be  restrained  from  breaking  forth 

in  cheers 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia! 

Cho. 


160  MEMORIAL  DAY 

"  Sherman's  dashing  Yankee  boys  will  never  reach  the 

coast!" 
So    the    saucy    rebels    said, — and    'twas    a   handsome 

boast. 

Had  they  not  forgot,  alas!  to  reckon  on  a  host, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia! 

Cho. 

So  we  made  a  thoroughfare   for  Freedom  and  her 

train, 

Sixty  miles  in  latitude,  three  hundred  to  the  main  ; 
Treason  fled  before  us,  for  resistance  was  in  vain, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia ! 

Cho. 


THE  SOUTHERN  SOLDIER 

BY    HENRY    W.    GRADY 

You  of  the  North  have  had  drawn  for  you  with  a 
master's  hand  the  picture  of  your  returning  armies. 
You  have  heard  how,  in  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of 
war,  they  came  back  to  you,  marching  with  proud  and 
victorious  tread,  reading  their  glory  in  a  nation's  eyes. 
Will  you  bear  with  me  while  I  tell  you  of  another 
army  that  sought  its  home  at  the  close  of  the  late  war 
— an  army  that  marched  home  in  defeat  and  not  in 
victory,  in  pathos  and  not  in  splendor? 

Let  me  picture  to  you  the  footsore  Confederate  sol 
dier,  as,  buttoning  up  his  faded  gray  jacket,  the 
parole  which  was  the  testimony  to  his  children  of  his 


THE  WAR  161 

fidelity  and  faith,  he  turned  his  face  southward  from 
Appomattox  in  April,  1865.  Think  of  him  as  ragged, 
half-starved,  heavy-hearted,  enfeebled  by  want  and 
wounds;  having  fought  to  exhaustion,  he  surrenders 
his  gun,  wrings  the  hands  of  his  comrades  in  silence, 
and  lifting  his  tear-stained  and  pallid  face  for  the  last 
time  to  the  graves  that  dot  the  old  Virginia  hills,  pulls 
his  gray  cap  over  his  brow  and  begins  the  slow  and 
painful  journey. 

What  does  he  find — let  me  ask  you,  who  went  to 
your  homes  eager  to  find,  in  the  welcome  you  had 
justly  earned,  full  payment  for  four  years'  sacrifice — 
what  does  he  find  when,  having  followed  the  battle- 
stained  cross  against  overwhelming  odds,  dreading 
death  not  half  as  much  as  surrender,  he  reaches  the 
home  he  left  so  prosperous  and  beautiful? 

He  finds  his  house  in  ruins,  his  farms  devastated, 
his  slaves  free,  his  stock  killed,  his  barns  empty,  his 
trade  destroyed,  his  money  worthless;  his  social  sys 
tem,  feudal  in  its  magnificence,  swept  away;  his  peo 
ple  without  law  or  legal  status,  his  comrades  slain,  and 
the  burdens  of  others  heavy  on  his  shoulders.  Crushed 
by  defeat,  his  very  traditions  are  gone ;  without  money, 
credit,  employment,  material,  or  training;  and,  be 
sides  all  this,  confronted  with  the  gravest  problem  that 
ever  met  human  intelligence — the  establishing  of  a 
status  for  the  vast  body  of  his  liberated  slaves. 

What  does  he  do — this  hero  in  gray  with  a  heart  of 
gold?  Does  he  sit  down  in  sullenness  and  despair? 
Not  for  a  day.  Surely  God,  who  had  stripped  him  in 
his  prosperity,  inspired  him  in  his  adversity.  As  ruin 
was  never  so  overwhelming,  never  was  restoration 


162  MEMORIAL  DAY 

swifter.  The  soldier  stepped  from  the  trenches,  into 
the  furrow;  horses  that  had  charged  Federal  guns 
marched  before  the  plow,  and  fields  that  ran  red  with 
blood  in  April  were  green  with  the  harvest  of  June. 

Never  was  nobler  duty  confided  to  human  hands 
than  the  uplifting  and  upbuilding  of  the  prostrate  and 
bleeding  South,  misguided,  perhaps,  but  beautiful  in 
her  suffering.  In  the  record  of  her  social,  industrial, 
and  political  evolution,  we  await  with  confidence  the 
verdict  of  the  world. 


FROM  "THE  HARVARD  COMMEMORATION 

ODE  " 1 

BY   JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 

Whither  leads  the  path 
To  ampler  fates  that  leads  ? 
Not  down  through  flowery  meads 
To  reap  an  after-math 
Of  youth's  vainglorious  weeds, 
But  up  the  steep,  amid  the  wrath 
And  shock  of  deadly-hostile  creeds, 
Where  the  world's  best  hope  and  stay 
By  battle's  flashes  gropes  a  desperate  way, 
And  every  turf  the  fierce  foot  clings  to  bleeds. 
Peace  hath  her  not  ignoble  wreath, 
Ere  yet  the  sharp,  decisive  word 
Light  the  black  lips  of  cannon,  and  the  sword 
Dreams  in  its  easeful  sheath  ; 

1  By  permission  of  the  publishers,  Houyhton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 


THE  WAR  163 

But  some  day  the  live  coal  behind  the  thought, 
Whether  from  Baal's  stone  obscene, 
Or  from  the  shrine  serene 
Of  God's  pure  altar  brought, 
Bursts  up  in  flame ;  the  war  of  tongue  and  pen 
Learns  with  what  deadly  purpose  it  was  fraught, 
And,  helpless  in  the  fiery  passion  caught, 
Shakes  all  the  pillared  state  with  shock  of  men : 
Some  day  the  soft  Ideal  that  we  wooed 
Confronts  us  fiercely,  foe-beset,  pursued, 
And   cries    reproachful :    "  Was   it,   then,    my   praise, 
And  not  myself  was  loved?     Prove  now  thy  truth; 
I  claim  of  thee  the  promise  of  thy  youth ; 
Give  me  thy  life,  or  cower  in  empty  phrase, 
The  victim  of  thy  genius,  not  its  mate!" 
Life  may  be  given  in  many  ways, 
And  loyalty  to  Truth  be  sealed 
As  bravely  in  the  closet  as  the  field, 

So  bountiful  is  Fate; 

But  then  to  stand  beside  her, 

When  craven  churls  deride  her, 
To  front  a  lie  in  arms  and  not  to  yield, 

This  shows,  methinks,  God's  plan 

And  measure  of  a  stalwart  man, 

Limbed  like  the  old  heroic  breeds, 
Who  stand  self-poised  on  manhood's  solid  earth, 
Not  forced  to  frame  excuses  for  his  birth, 
Fed  from  within  with  all  the  strength  he  needs. 


IV 
THE  HEROIC  DEAD 


HOW  SLEEP  THE  BRAVE 

BY  WILLIAM  COLLINS 

How  sleep  the  Brave  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mold, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung; 
There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair, 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there ! 


TWO  VETERANS  * 

BY    WALT    WHITMAN 

The  last  sunbeam 

Lightly  falls  from  the  finished  Sabbath, 
On  the  pavement  here,  and  there  beyond  it  is  looking 

Down  a  new-made  double  grave. 

1  By   permission   of   the   publisher,   David   McKay,   Phila 
delphia. 

167 


1 68  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Lo!  the  moon  ascending, 
Up  from  the  east  the  silvery  round  moon, 
Beautiful  over  the  house-tops,  ghastly,  phantom  moon, 

Immense  and  silent  moon. 

I  see  a  sad  procession, 

And  I  hear  the  sound  of  coming  full-keyed  bugles, 
All  the  channels  of  the  city  streets  they're  flooding, 

As  with  voices  and  with  tears. 

I  hear  the  great  drums  pounding, 
And  the  small  drums  steady  whirring, 
And  every  blow  of  the  great  convulsive  drums 

Strikes  me  through  and  through. 

For  the  son  is  brought  with  the  father, 
(In  the  foremost  ranks  of  the  fierce  assault  they  fell, 
Two  veterans,  son  and  father,  dropt  together, 

And  the  double  grave  awaits  them). 

Now  nearer  blow  the  bugles, 
And  the  drums  strike  more  convulsive, 
And  the  daylight  o'er  the  pavement  quite  has  faded, 

And  the  strong  dead-march  enwraps  me. 

In  the  eastern  sky  up-buoying, 
The  sorrowful  vast  phantom  moves  illumined, 
('Tis  some  mother's  large  transparent  face 

In  heaven  brighter  growing). 

O  strong  dead-march  you  please  me! 
O  moon  immense  with  your  silvery  face  you  soothe 
me! 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  169 

O  my  soldiers  twain !  O  my  veterans  passing  to  burial ! 
What  I  have  I  also  give  you. 

The  moon  gives  you  light, 
And  the  bugles  and  the  drums  give  you  music, 
And  my  heart,  O  my  soldiers,  my  veterans, 

My  heart  gives  you  love. 


OUR  DEAD  SOLDIERS 

BY  FRANCIS  A.   WALKER 

We  come,  not  to  mourn  our  dead  soldiers,  but  to 
praise  them.  For  one,  I  have  never  liked,  even  from 
the  first,  to  see,  as  so  often  is  the  case,  the  flag  at 
half-mast  upon  Memorial  Day.  But  if  ever  it  was 
appropriate  it  long  since  ceased  to  be  so.  After  so 
many  years,  tears  no  longer  befit  the  place  where  the 
soldier  lies  in  his  last  sleep.  The  bitter  grief  which 
their  untimely  deaths  brought  to  so  many  hearts, 
Time,  the  all-healer,  has  mercifully  soothed  and  soft 
ened  into  pathetic  memories  and  pious  veneration. 
Many  who  then  mourned  in  all  pain  and  passion  of 
bereavement  have  themselves  followed  after,  and  are 
now  at  peace  where  there  is  no  more  sorrow  nor  cry 
ing,  no  more  war  and  fighting,  no  more  absence  nor 
parting. 

But  while  the  reason  for  personal  grief  has  been 
steadily  diminishing  with  the  lapse  of  time  and  with 
the  passing  away  of  those  who  once  mourned,  the 
reason  for  praising  these  men  and  honoring  them  in 


i;o  MEMORIAL  DAY 

the  eyes  of  the  nation  has  been  steadily  increasing,  as 
we  have  come  to  see  more  and  more  clearly  the 
vast  and  ever-growing  significance  of  that  which  they 
did.  When  our  dead  soldiers  were  brought  home 
from  battlefield  or  hospital  to  be  laid  in  quiet  graves, 
no  man  in  all  the  land,  not  even  he  whose  great 
prophetic  soul  conducted  the  nation  to  its  final  deliv 
erance,  could  possibly  rise  far  enough  above  the 
clamor  and  the  strife,  the  anguish  and  the  agony  of 
the  time,  or  peer  far  enough  into  the  cloudy  and 
threatening  future  to  see  the  half  of  what  the  dullest 
of  us  now  sees  of  the  greatness  of  the  blessings  which 
were  to  be  purchased  by  those  most  pathetic  sacrifices. 

What  they  died  intent  on  witnessing,  we  have  lived 
to  see, — the  nation  redeemed  by  the  blood  of  its  loyal 
sons,  disenthralled  from  an  ignoble  bondage,  purified 
of  a  loathsome  leprosy,  healed  of  what  seemed  a  fatal 
breach  among  its  members, — rise,  glad,  proud,  free, 
triumphant,  jubilant,  to  address  itself  to  the  remaining 
problems  of  its  existence,  to  do  its  appointed  work  for 
its  own  citizens  and  for  all  humanity,  and  to  take  its 
rightful  place  among  the  nations  of  the  earth  with  a 
power  not  till  then  suspected,  with  a  true  national 
purpose  that  before  had  been  doubtful,  hesitating,  and 
divided,  with  a  real  national  character  that  had  before 
been  unformed,  inconsistent,  and  weak. 

The  nation  they  saved  is  in  a  high  sense  another  na 
tion  from  that  which  they  went  to  save,  which  they 
died  hoping  to  save.  It  has  at  last  a  definite  purpose. 
That  purpose  is  resolute,  considerate,  peaceful, 
beneficent.  It  has  at  last  an  established  character. 
That  character  is  strong,  loyal,  acquisitive,  enterpris- 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  171 

ing.  The  nation  which  amid  general  gloom  and  grief 
entered  into  that  giant  struggle,  was  at  the  best  but  in 
the  second  rank  among  the  powers  of  the  earth.  The 
stain  of  human  slavery  defiled  its  flag  and  disfigured 
its  escutcheon.  Its  industrial  system  was  paralyzed 
along  one  entire  side  by  laws  which  made  labor  dis 
honorable  and  defaced  the  image  of  God  in  man.  The 
shameful  sweat  of  unrequited  toil  and  the  poisonous 
blood  that  dripped  from  the  lash  were  slowly  steriliz 
ing  one-half  of  its  soil.  Between  the  two  sections,  with 
their  antagonistic  civilizations,  political  passions  had 
long  been  making  ever  deeper  and  deeper  divisions. 

The  nation  which  emerged  from  that  struggle  free, 
victorious,  and  forever  united  has  already  assumed 
the  primacy  among  the  nations;  and  its  power  for 
good,  alike  to  its  own  citizenship  and  to  all  human 
kind,  has  scarcely  yet  been  intimated  to  our  feeble, 
faltering  faith.  The  glorious  mission  to  which  it  is 
called  is  to  illustrate  to  the  world  the  blessings  of 
peace  and  liberty  and  educated  labor.  It  was  to 
achieve  this  mighty  deliverance,  it  was  to  work  this 
marvelous  transformation  that  our  brave  soldiers  died. 
Honor,  then,  immortal  honor,  to  their  memories ! 
Forever  green  be  the  graves  in  which  they  shall  lie 
among  a  grateful  people  rejoicing  in  the  benefits  won 
by  their  heroic  sacrifices  and  untimely  death! 


i;2         MEMORIAL  DAY 

THE  UNKNOWN  DEAD 

BY    HENRY   TIMROD 

The  rain  is  plashing  on  my  sill, 

But  all  the  winds  of  heaven  are  still; 

And  so,  it  falls  with  that  dull  sound 

Which  thrills  us  in  the  churchyard  ground, 

When  the  first  spadeful  drops  like  lead 

Upon  the  coffin  of  the  dead. 

Beyond  my  streaming  window-pane 

I  cannot  see  the  neighboring  vane, 

Yet  from  its  old  familiar  tower 

The  bell  comes,  muffled,  through  the  shower. 

What  strange  and  unsuspected  link 

Of  feeling  touched  has  made  me  think — 

While  with  a  vacant  soul  and  eye 

I  watch  that  gray  and  stony  sky — 

Of  nameless  graves  on  battle  plains, 

Washed  by  a  single  winter's  rains, 

Where,  some  beneath  Virginian  hills, 

And  some  by  green  Atlantic  rills, 

Some  by  the  waters  of  the  West, 

A  myriad  unknown  heroes  rest. 

Ah!  not  the  chiefs  who,  dying,  see 

Their  flags  in  front  of  victory, 

Or,  at  their  life-blood's  noblest  cost 

Pay  for  a  battle  nobly  lost, 

Claim  from  their  monumental  beds 

The  bitterest  tears  a  nation  sheds. 

Beneath  yon  lonely  mound — the  spot, 

By  all  save  some  fond  few  forgot — 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  173 

Lie  the  true  martyrs  of  the  fight, 

Which  strikes  for  freedom  and  for  right. 

Of  them,  their  patriot  zeal  and  pride, 

The  lofty  faith  that  with  them  died, 

No  grateful  page  shall  further  tell 

Than  that  so  many  bravely  fell; 

And  we  can  only  dimly  guess 

What  worlds  of  all  this  world's  distress, 

What  utter  woe,  despair,  and  dearth, 

Their  fate  has  brought  to  many  a  hearth. 

Just  such  a  sky  as  this  should  weep 

Above  them,  always,  where  they  sleep; 

Yet,  haply,  at  this  very  hour, 

Their  graves  are  like  a  lover's  bower ; 

And  Nature's  self,  with  eyes  unwet 

Oblivious  of  the  crimson  debt 

To  which  she  owes  her  April  grace, 

Laughs  gayly  o'er  their  burial  place. 


ONLY  A  SOLDIER'S  GRAVE 

BY   S.   A.    JONES,   OF  ABERDEEN,    MISS. 

Only  a  soldier's  grave!     Pass  by, 
For  soldiers,  like  other  mortals,  die. 
Parents  he  had — they  are  far  away; 
No  sister  weeps  o'er  the  soldier's  clay ; 
No  brother  comes,  with  a  tearful  eye: 
It's  only  a  soldier's  grave — pass  by. 


i74  MEMORIAL  DAY 

True,  he  was  loving,  and  young,  and  brave, 
Though  no  glowing  epitaph  honors  his  grave; 
No  proud  recital  of  virtues  known, 
Of  griefs  endured,  or  of  triumphs  won ; 
No  tablet  of  marble,  or  obelisk  'high ; 
Only  a  soldier's  grave — pass  by. 

Yet  bravely  he  wielded  his  sword  in  fight, 
And  he  gave  his  life  in  the  cause  of  right! 
When  his  hope  was  high,  and  his  youthful  dream 
As  warm  as  the  sunlight  on  yonder  stream; 
His  heart  unvexed  by  sorrow  or  sigh ; — 
Yet,  'tis  only  a  soldier's  grave — pass  by. 

Yet,  should  we  mark  it — the  soldier's  grave, 
Some  one  may  seek  him  in  hope  to  save ! 
Some  of  the  dear  ones,  far  away, 
Would  bear  him  home  to  his  native  clay ; 
'Twere  sad,  indeed,  should  they  wander  nigh, 
Find  not  the  hillock,  and  pass  him  by. 

(Southern.) 


READING  THE  LIST 

ANONYMOUS 

"  Is  there  any  news  of  the  war  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Only  a  list  of  the  wounded  and  dead," 

Was  the  man's  reply, 

Without  lifting  his  eye 

To  the  face  of  the  woman  standing  by. 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  175 

"  Tis  the  very  thing  I  want,"  she  said ; 

"  Read  me  a  list  of  the  wounded  and  dead." 

He  read  the  list — 'twas  a  sad  array 

Of  the  wounded  and  killed  in  the  fatal  fray. 

In  the  very  midst,  was  a  pause  to  tell 
Of  a  gallant  youth  who  fought  so  well 
That  his  comrades  asked :  "  Who  is  he,  pray  ?  " 
"  The  only  son  of  the  Widow  Gray," 

Was  the  proud  reply 

Of  his  captain  nigh — 
What  ails  the  woman  standing  near? 
Her  face  has  the  ashen  hue  of  fear ! 

"  Well,  well,  read  on ;  is  he  wounded  ?    Quick ! 

O  God!  but  my  heart  is  sorrow-sick! 

Is  he  wounded  ?  "     "  No ;  he  fell,  they  say, 

Killed  outright  on  that  fatal  day !  " 

But  see,  the  woman  has  swooned  away! 

Sadly  she  opened  her  eyes  to  the  light ; 
Slowly  recalled  the  events  of  the  fight ; 
Faintly  she  murmured:  "  Killed  outright! 
It  has  cost  me  the  life  of  my  only  son; 
But  the  battle  is  fought,  and  the  victory  won ; 
The  will  of  the  Lord,  let  it  be  done!  " 

God  pity  the  cheerless  Widow  Gray, 
And  send  from  the  halls  of  eternal  day 
The  light  of  his  peace  to  illumine  her  way. 

(Southern.) 


1 76  MEMORIAL  DAY 

DECORATION  DAY 

BY   HENRY  WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 

Sleep,  comrades !  sleep  and  rest 
On  this  field  of  grounded  arms, 

Where  foes  no  more  molest, 
Nor  sentry's  shot  alarms. 

Ye  have  slept  on  the  ground  before, 
And  started  to  your  feet 

At  the  cannon's  sudden  roar, 
Or  the  drum's  redoubling  beat. 

But  in  this  camp  of  death 

No  sound  your  slumber  breaks ; 

Here  is  no  fevered  breath, 

No  wound  that  bleeds  and  aches. 

All  is  repose  and  peace; 

Untrampled  lies  the  sod ; 
The  shouts  of  battle  cease, — 

It  is  the  truce  of  God. 

Rest,  comrades!  rest  and  sleep! 

The  thoughts  of  men  should  be 
As  sentinels,  to  keep 

Your  rest  from  dangers  free. 

Your  silent  tents  of  green 

We  deck  with  fragrant  flowers; 

Yours  has  the  suffering  been, 
The  memory  shall  be  ours. 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  177 

OUR  COUNTRY'S  DEFENDERS 

BY   WILLIAM   MCKINLEY 

Blessed  is  that  country  whose  soldiers  fight  for  it 
and  are  willing  to  give  the  best  they  have,  the  best  that 
any  man  has,  their  own  lives,  to  preserve  it  because 
they  love  it.  Such  an  army  the  United  States  has 
always  commanded  in  every  crisis  of  her  history. 
From  the  War  of  the  Revolution  to  the  late  Civil 
War,  the  men  followed  that  flag  in  battle  because  they 
loved  that  flag  and  believed  in  what  it  represented. 

That  was  the  stuff  of  which  the  volunteer  army  of 
'61  was  made.  Every  one  of  them  not  only  fought, 
but  thought.  And  many  of  them  did  their  own  think 
ing  and  did  not  always  agree  with  their  commander. 
A  young  soldier  in  the  late  war  was  on  the  battle  line 
ahead  with  the  color-guard,  bearing  the  stars  and 
stripes  way  in  front  of  the  line,  but  the  enemy  still  in 
front  of  him.  The  general  called  out  to  the  color- 
bearer,  "  Bring  those  colors  back  to  the  line,"  and 
quicker  than  any  bullet  that  young  soldier  answered 
back,  "  Bring  the  line  up  to  the  colors."  It  was  the 
voice  of  command ;  there  was  a  man  behind  it,  and 
there  was  patriotism  in  his  heart. 

"  So  nigh  is  grandeur  to  our  dust ; 

So  near  to  God  is  man, 
When  duty  whispers  low,  '  Thou  must/ 
The  youth  replies,  4 1  can.' " 

And  so,  more  than  two  million  brave  men  thus  re 
sponded  and  made  up  an  army  grander  than  any  army 


178  MEMORIAL  DAY 

that  ever  shook  the  earth  with  its  tread,  and  engaged  in 
a  holier  cause  than  ever  engaged  soldiers  before. 

What  defenders,  my  countrymen,  have  we  now? 
We  have  the  remnant  of  this  old,  magnificent,  match 
less  army,  of  which  I  have  been  speaking,  and  then 
as  allies  in  any  future  war,  we  have  the  brave  men 
who  fought  against  us  on  Southern  battlefields.  The 
Army  of  Grant  and  the  Army  of  Lee  are  together. 
They  are  one  now  in  faith,  in  hope,  in  fraternity,  in 
purpose,  and  in  an  invincible  patriotism.  And,  there 
fore,  the  country  is  in  no  danger.  In  justice  strong,  in 
peace  secure,  and  in  devotion  to  the  flag  all  one. 


HYMN  FOR  MEMORIAL  DAY 
Magnolia  Cemetery,  Charleston,  S.  C. 

BY   HENRY  TIMROD 

Sleep  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves — 
Sleep,  martyrs  of  a  fallen  cause! 

Though  yet  no  marble  column  craves 
The  pilgrim  here  to  pause, 

In  seeds  of  laurel  in  the  earth 

The  blossom  of  your  fame  is  blown, 

And  somewhere,  waiting  for  its  birth, 
The  shaft  is  in  the  stone ! 

Meanwhile,  behalf  the  tardy  years 

Which  keep  in  trust  your  storied  tombs, 

Behold!  your  sisters  bring  their  tears 
And  these  memorial  blooms. 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  179 

Small  tributes ;  but  your  shades  will  smile 
More  proudly  on  these  wreaths  to-day 

Than  when  some  cannon-molded  pile 
Shall  overlook  this  bay. 

Stoop,  angels,  hither  from  the  skies ! 

There  is  no  holier  spot  of  ground 
Than  where  defeated  valor  lies 

By  mourning  beauty  crowned. 


HEROES  OF  THE  SOUTH 

From  an  Ode  on  the  Valor  and  Sufferings  of 
Confederate  Soldiers 

BY    PAUL    HAMILTON    HAYNE 

Four  deadly  years  we  fought, 
Ringed  by  a  girdle  of  unfaltering  fire 
That   coiled   and   hissed   in   lessening  circles   nigher. 

Blood  dyed  the  Southern  wave ; 
From  ocean  border  to  calm  inland  river, 
( There  was  no  pause,  no  peace,  no  respite  ever. 

Blood  of  our  bravest  brave 
Drenched  in  a  scarlet  rain  the  western  lea, 
Swelled  the  hoarse  waters  of  the  Tennessee, 
Incarnadined  the  gulfs,  the  lakes,  the  rills, 

And  from  a  hundred  hills 
Steamed  in  a  mist  of  slaughter  to  the  skies, 
Shutting  all  hope  of  heaven  from  mortal  eyes. 


180  MEMORIAL  DAY 

The  Beaufort  blooms  were  wither'd  on  the  stem; 

The  fair  Gulf  City  in  a  single  night 

Lost  her  imperial  diadem  ; 
And  wheresoe'er  men's  troubled  vision  roamed 
They  viewed  Might  towering  o'er  the  humbled  crest  of 
Right ! 

But  for  a  time,  but  for  a  time,  O  God! 
The  innate  forces  of  our  knightly  blood 
Rallied,  and  by  the  mount,  the  fen,  the  flood, 

Upraised  the  tottering  standards  of  our  race. 
O  grand  Virginia!  though  thy  glittering  glaive 
Lies  sullied,  shattered  in  a  ruthless  grave, 

How  it  flashed  once ! 

They  dug  their  trenches  deep 

(The  implacable  foe),  they  ranged  their  lines  of  wrath ; 
But  watchful  ever  on  the  imminent  path 

Thy  steel-clad  genius  stood ; 

North,  South,  East,  West, — they  strove  to  pierce  thy 
shield : 

Thou  wouldst  not  yield ! 

Until — unconquered,  yea,  unconquered  still — 
Nature's  weakened  forces  answered  not  thy  will, 
And  gored  with  wound  on  wound, 
Thy  fainting  limbs  and  forehead  sought  the  ground ; 
And  with  thee,  the  young  nation  fell,  a  pall 
Solemn  and  rayless,  covering  one  and  all ! 

God's  ways  are  marvelous ;  here  we  stand  to-day 
Discrown'd,  and  shorn  in  wildest  disarray, 
The  mock  of  earth !  yet  never  shone  the  sun 
On  sterner  deeds,  or  nobler  victories  won. 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  181 

Not  in  the  field  alone ;  ah,  come  with  me 
To  the  dim  bivouac  by  the  winter's  sea ; 
Mark  the  fair  sons  of  courtly  mothers  crouch 

O'er  flickering  fires;  but  gallant  still,  and  gay 
As  on  some  bright  parade.     Or  mark  the  couch 

In  reeking  hospitals,  whereon  is  laid 
The  latest  scion  of  a  line  perchance 
Whose  veins  were  royal.    Close  your  blurred  romance, 
Blurred  by  the  dropping  of  a  maudlin  tear, 
And  watch  the  manhood  here  ; 

That  firm  but  delicate  countenance, 
Distorted  sometimes  by  an  awful  pang, 
Borne  in  meek  patience.     When  the  trumpets  rang 
"  To  horse !  "  but  yester-morn,  that  ardent  boy 
Sprang  to  his  charger,  thrilled  with  hope  and  joy 
To  the  very  finger-tips;  and  now  he  lies, 
The  shadows  deepening  in  those  falcon  eyes, 

But  calm  and  undismayed 

As  if  the  Death  that  chills  him,  brow  and  breast, 
Were  some  fond  bride  who  whispered,  "  Let  us  rest !  " 

Enough!  'tis  over!  the  last  gleam  of  hope 
Hath  melted  from  our  mournful  horoscope — 

Of  all,  of  all  bereft; 

Only  to  us  are  left 

Our  buried  heroes   and   their  matchless   deeds. 
These  cannot  pass ;  they  hold  the  vital  seeds 
Which  in  some  far,  untracked,  unvisioned  hour 
May  burst  to  vivid  bud  and  glorious  flower. 

Meanwhile,  upon  the  nation's  broken  heart 
Her  martyrs  sleep.     Oh,  dearer  far  to  her 
Than  if  each  son,  a  wreathed  conqueror, 


182  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Rode  in  triumphant  state 

The  loftiest  crest  of  fate; 
Oh,  dearer  far,  because  outcast  and  low, 
She  yearns  above  them  in  her  awful  woe. 

(Southern.) 


FROM  "  AN  ODE  IN  TIME  OF  HESITATION  " 1 

1900 

ROBERT  GOULD  SHAW 
BY   WILLIAM    VAUGHN    MOODY 

The  wars  we  wage 

Are  noble,  and  our  battles  still  are  won 

By  justice  for  us,  ere  we  lift  the  gage. 

We  have  not  sold  our  loftiest  heritage. 

The  proud  republic  hath  not  stooped  to  cheat 

And  scramble  in  the  market  place  of  war; 

Her  forehead  weareth  yet  its  solemn  star. 

Here  is  her  witness:  this,  her  perfect  son, 

This  delicate  and  proud  New  England  soul 

Who  leads  despised  men,  with  just-unshackled  feet, 

Up  the  large  ways  where  death  and  glory  meet, 

To  show  all  peoples  that  our  shame  is  done, 

That  once  more  we  are  clean  and  spirit-whole. 

Crouched  in  the  sea  fog  on  the  moaning  sand 
All  night  he  lay,  speaking  some  simple  word 
From  hour  to  hour  to  the  slow  minds  that  heard, 
Holding  each  poor  life  gently  in  his  hand 

1  By  permission  of  the  publishers,  Houghton,  Mifflin  <5*  Co. 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  183 

And  breathing  on  the  base  rejected  clay 

Till  each  dark  face  shone  mystical  and  grand 

Against  the  breaking  day; 

And  lo,  the  shard  the  potter  cast  away 

Was  grown  a  fiery  chalice  crystal-fine, 

Fulfilled  of  the  divine 

Great  wine  of  battle  wrath  by  God's  ring-finger  stirred. 

Then  upward,  where  the  shadowy  bastion  loomed 

Huge  on  the  mountain  in  the  wet  sea  light, 

Whence  now,  and  now,  infernal  flowerage  bloomed, 

Bloomed,  burst,  and  scattered  down  its  deadly  seed — 

They  swept  and  died  like  freemen  on  the  height, 

Like  freemen,  and  like  men  of  noble  breed; 

And  when  the  battle  fell  away  at  night 

By  hasty  and  contemptuous  hands  were  thrust 

Obscurely  in  a  common  grave  with  him 

The  fair-haired  keeper  of  their  love  and  trust. 

Now  limb  doth  mingle  with  dissolved  limb 

In  nature's  busy  old  democracy 

To  flush  the  mountain  laurel  when  she  blows 

Sweet  by  the  southern  sea, 

And  heart  with  crumbled  heart  climbs  in  the  rose: — 

The  untaught  hearts  with  the  high  heart  that  knew 

This  mountain  fortress  for  no  earthly  hold 

Of  temporal  quarrel,  but  the  bastion  old 

Of  spiritual  wrong, 

Built  by  an  unjust  nation  sheer  and  strong, 

Expugnable  but  by  a  nation's  rue 

And  bowing  down  before  that  equal  shrine 

By  all  men  held  divine, 

Whereof  his  band  and  he  were  the  most  holy  sign. 


184  MEMORIAL  DAY 


AN  ODE1 

On  the  Unveiling  of  the  Shaw  Memorial  on  Boston 
Common,  May  31,  1897 

BY   THOMAS    BAILEY    ALDRICH 


Not  with  slow,  funereal  sound 
Come  we  to  this  sacred  ground  ; 
Not  with  wailing  fife  and  solemn  muffled  drum, 
Bringing  a  cypress  wreath 

To  lay,  with  bended  knee, 
On  the  cold  brows  of  Death — 
Not  so,  dear  God,  we  come, 
But  with  the  trumpets'  blare 
And  shot-torn  battle-banners  flung  to  air, 
As  for  a  victory ! 

Hark  to  the  measured  tread  of  martial  feet, 
The  music  and  the  murmurs  of  the  street ! 

No  bugle  breathes  this  day 

Disaster  and  retreat! 

Hark,  how  the  iron  lips 

Of  the  great  battleships 
Salute  the  City  from  her  azure  Bay! 

ii 

Time  was — time  was,  ah,  unforgotten  years ! — 
We  paid  our  hero  tribute  of  our  tears. 
But  now  let  go 

1  By  permission  of  the  publishers,  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  185 

All  sounds  and  signs  and  formulas  of  woe: 
Tis  Life,  not  Death,  we  celebrate; 
To  Life,  not  Death,  we  dedicate 
This  storied  bronze,  whereon  is  wrought 
The  lithe  immortal  figure  of  our  thought, 
To  show  forever  to  men's  eyes, 
Our  children's  children's  children's  eyes, 
How  once  he  stood 
In  that  heroic  mood, 
He  and  his  dusky  braves 
So  fain  of  glorious  graves! — 
One  instant  stood,  and  then 

Drave  through  that  cloud  of  purple  steel  and  flame, 
Which  wrapt  him,  held  him,  gave  him  not  again, 
But  in  its  trampled  ashes  left  to  Fame 
An  everlasting  name! 

in 

That  was  indeed  to  live — 

At  one  bold  swoop  to  wrest 

From  darkling  death  the  best 

That  death  to  life  can  give. 

He  fell  as  Roland  fell 

That  day  at  Roncevaux, 
With  foot  upon  the  ramparts  of  the  foe ! 

A  paean,  not  a  knell, 

For  heroes  dying  so! 

No  need   for  sorrow  here, 

No  room  for  sigh  or  tear, 
Save  such  rich  tears  as  happy  eyelids  know. 

See  where  he  rides,  our  Knight ! 

Within  his  eyes  the  light 


i86  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Of  battle,  and  youth's  gold  about  his  brow ; 

Our  Paladin,  our  Soldier  of  the  Cross, 
Not  weighing  gain  with  loss — 
World-loser,  that  won  all 
Obeying  duty's  call! 
Not  his,  at  peril's  frown, 
A  pulse  of  quicker  beat ; 
Not  his  to  hesitate 
And  parley  hold  with  Fate, 
But  proudly  to  fling  down 
His  gauntlet  at  her  feet. 

O  soul  of  loyal  valor  and  white  truth, 
Here,  by  this  iron  gate, 

Thy  serried  ranks  about  thee  as  of  yore, 
Stand  thou  for  evermore 
In  thy  undying  youth! 

The  tender  heart,  the  eagle  eye ! 
Oh,  unto  him  belong 
The  homages  of  Song; 
Our  praises  and  the  praise 
Of  coming  days 
To  him  belong — 
To  him,  to  him,  the  dead  that  shall  not  die ! 

THE  BATTLEFIELD 

BY   WILLIAM    CULLEN   BRYANT 

Once  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands, 
Were  trampled  by  a  hurrying  crowd, 

And  fiery  hearts  and  armed  hands 
Encountered  in  the  battle-cloud. 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  187 

Ah !  never  shall  the  land  forget 

How  gushed  the  life-blood  of  her  brave — 
Gushed,  warm  with  hope  and  courage  yet, 

Upon  the  soil  they  fought  to  save. 

Now  all  is  calm,  and  fresh,  and  still ; 

Alone  the  chirp  of  flitting  bird, 
And  talk  of  children  on  the  hill, 

And  bell  of  wandering  kine  are  heard. 

No  solemn  host  goes  trailing  by 

The  black-mouthed  gun  and  staggering  wain; 
Men  start  not  at  the  battle-cry, 

Oh,  be  it  never  heard  again ! 

Soon  rested  those  who  fought ;  but  thou 

Who  minglest  in  the  harder  strife 
For  truths  which  men  receive  not  now, 

Thy  warfare  only  ends  with  life. 

A  friendless  warfare !  lingering  long 

Through  weary  day  and  weary  year, 
A  wild  and  many-weaponed  throng 
.Hang  on  thy  front,  and  flank,  and  rear. 

Yet  nerve  thy  spirit  to  the  proof, 

And  blench  not  at  thy  chosen  lot. 
The  timid  good  may  stand  aloof, 

The  sage  may  frown — yet  faint  thou  not. 

Nor  heed  the  shaft  too  surely  cast, 

The  foul  and  hissing  bolt  of  scorn ; 
For  with  thy  side  shall  dwell,  at  last, 

The  victory  of  endurance  born. 


1 88  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  shall  rise  again ; 

The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers  ; 
But  Error,  wounded,  writhes  in  pain, 

And  dies  among  his  worshipers. 

Yea,  though  thou  lie  upon  the  dust, 
When  they  who  helped  thee  flee  in  fear, 

Die  full  of  hope  and  manly  trust, 
Like  those  who  fell  in  battle  here. 

Another  hand  thy  sword  shall  wield, 
Another  hand  the  standard  wave, 

Till  from  the  trumpet's  mouth  is  pealed 
The  blast  of  triumph  o'er  thy  grave. 


UNDER  THE  STARS 

BY    WALLACE   RICE 

Tell  me  what  sail  the  seas 

Under  the  stars? 
Ships,  and  ships'  companies, 

Off  to  the  wars. 

Steel  are  the  ship's  great  sides, 

Steel  are  her  guns, 
Backward  she  thrusts  the  tides, 

Swiftly  she  runs; 

Steel  is  the  sailor's  heart, 

Stalwart  his  arm, 
His  the  Republic's  part 

Through  cloud  and  storm. 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  189 

Tell  me  what  standard  rare 

Streams  from  the  spars? 
Red  stripes  and  white  they  bear, 

Blue,  with  bright  stars : 

Red  for  brave  hearts  that  burn 

With  liberty, 
White  for  the  peace  they  earn 

Making  men  free, 

Stars  for  the  Heaven  above, — 

Blue  for  the  deep, 
Where,  in  their  country's  love, 

Heroes  shall  sleep. 

Tell  me  why  on  the  breeze 

These  banners  blow? 
Ships,  and  ships'  companies, 

Eagerly  go 

Warring,  like  all  our  line, 

Freedom  to  friend 
Under  this  starry  sign, 

True  to  the  end. 

Fair  is  the  Flag's  renown, 

Sacred  her  scars, 
Sweet  the  death  she  shall  crown 

Under  the  stars. 


190  MEMORIAL  DAY 

SHERMAN  * 

BY    RICHARD    WATSON    GILDER 

Glory  and  honor  and  fame  and  everlasting  laudation 
For  our  captains  who  loved  not  war,  but  fought  for 

the  life  of  the  nation; 
Who  knew  that,  in  all  the  land,  one  slave  meant  strife, 

not  peace; 
Who  fought  for  freedom,  not  glory;  made  war  that 

war  might  cease. 

Glory  and  honor  and  fame;  the  beating  of  muffled 

drums ; 
The  wailing  funeral  dirge,  as  the  flag-wrapped  coffin 

comes ; 

Fame  and  honor  and  glory;  and  joy  for  a  noble  soul, 
For  a  full  and  splendid  life,  and  laureled  rest  at  the 

goal. 

Glory  and  honor  and  fame;  the  pomp  that  a  soldier 

prizes  ; 
The  league-long  waving  line  as  the  marching  falls  and 

rises  ; 
Rumbling  of  caissons  and  guns ;  the  clatter  of  horses' 

feet, 
And  a  million  awe-struck  faces  far  down  the  waiting 

street. 
1  By  permission  of  the  publishers,  Houghton,  Miffiin  &  Co. 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  191 

But  better  than  martial  woe,  and  the  pageant  of  civic 
sorrow ; 

Better  than  praise  of  to-day,  or  the  statue  we  build  to 
morrow  ; 

Better  than  honor  and  glory,  and  history's  iron  pen, 

Was  the  thought  of  duty  done  and  the  love  of  his  fel 
low-men. 


OUR  HONORED  DEAD 

BY  HENRY  WARD  BEECHER 

Oh,  tell  me  not  that  they  are  dead — that  generous 
host,  that  airy  army  of  invisible  heroes !  They  hover 
as  a  cloud  of  witnesses  above  this  Nation.  Are  they 
dead  that  yet  speak  louder  than  we  can  speak,  and  a 
more  universal  language?  Are  they  dead  that  yet 
act?  Are  they  dead  that  yet  move  upon  society,  and 
inspire  the  people  with  nobler  motives  and  more  heroic 
patriotism?  .  .  . 

Every  mountain  and  hill  shall  have  its  treasured 
name,  every  river  shall  keep  some  solemn  title,  every 
valley  and  every  lake  shall  cherish  its  honored  register ; 
and  till  the  mountains  are  worn  out,  and  the  rivers  for 
get  to  flow — till  the  clouds  are  weary  of  replenishing 
springs,  and  the  springs  forget  to  gush,  and  the  rills  to 
sing,  shall  their  names  be  kept  fresh  with  reverent  hon 
ors  which  are  inscribed  upon  the  book  of  National  Re 
membrance  ! 


192  MEMORIAL  DAY 

ROLL-CALL 

BY    NATHANIEL    GRAHAM    SHEPHERD 

"  Corporal  Green !  "  the  Orderly  cried ; 
"  Here !  "  was  the  answer  loud  and  clear, 
From  the  lips  of  a  soldier  who  stood  near, — 

And  "  Here !  "  was  the  word  the  next  replied. 

"  Cyrus  Drew  !  " — then  a  silence  fell ; 

This  time  no  answer  followed  the  call ; 

Only  his  rear-man  had  seen  him  fall: 
Killed  or  wounded — he  could  not  tell. 

There  they  stood  in  the  failing  light, 

These  men  of  battle,  with  grave,  dark  looks, 
As  plain  to  be  read  as  open  books, 

While  slowly  gathered  the  shades  of  night 

The  fern  on  the  hillsides  was  splashed  with  blood, 
And  down  in  the  corn,  where  the  poppies  grew, 
Were  redder  stains  than  the  poppies  knew, 

And  crimson-dyed  was  the  river's  flood. 

For  the  foe  had  crossed  from  the  other  side, 
That  day,  in  the  face  of  a  murderous  fire 
That  swept  them  down  in  its  terrible  ire ; 

And  their  life-blood  went  to  color  the  tide. 

"  Herbert  Cline!  "—At  the  call  there  came- 
Two  stalwart  soldiers  into  the  line, 
Bearing  between  them  this  Herbert  Cline, 

Wounded  and  bleeding,  to  answer  his  name. 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  193 

"  Ezra  Kerr !  " — and  a  voice  answered  "  Here !  " 
"  Hiram  Kerr !  " — but  no  man  replied. 
They  were  brothers,  these  two ;  the  sad  wind  sighed, 

And  a  shudder  crept  through  the  cornfield  near. 

"  Ephraim  Deane !  " — then  a  soldier  spoke : 

"  Deane  carried  our  regiment's  colors,"  he  said, 
"  When  our  ensign  was  shot ;  I  left  him  dead 

Just  after  the  enemy  wavered  and  broke. 

"  Close  to  the  roadside  his  body  lies ; 

I  paused  a  moment  and  gave  him  to  drink ; 

He  murmured  his  mother's  name,  I  think, 
And  Death  came  with  it  and  closed  his  eyes." 

'Twas  a  victory, — yes ;  but  it  cost  us  dear : 
For  that  company's  roll,  when  called  at  night, 
Of  a  hundred  men  who  went  into  the  fight, 

Numbered  but  twenty  that  answered  "Here!" 


A  SOLDIER  POET 

BY   ROSSITER   JOHNSON 

Where  swell  the  songs  thou  shouldst  have  sung 

By  peaceful  rivers  yet  to  flow  ? 
Where  bloom  the  smiles  thy  ready  tongue 

Would  call  to  lips  that  loved  thee  so  ? 
On  what  far  shore  of  being  tossed, 

Dost  thou  resume  the  genial  stave, 
And  strike  again  the  lyre  we  lost 

By  Rappahannock's  troubled  wave? 


194  MEMORIAL  DAY 

If  that  new  world  hath  hill  and  stream, 

And  breezy  bank,  and  quiet  dell, 
If  forests  murmur,  waters  gleam, 

And  wayside  flowers  their  story  tell, 
Thy  hand  ere  this  has  plucked  the  reed 

That  wavered  by  the  wooded  shore ; 
Its  prisoned  soul  thy  fingers  freed 

To  float  melodious  evermore. 

So  seems  it  to  my  musing  mood, 

So  runs  it  in  my  surer  thought, 
That  much  of  beauty,  more  of  good, 

For  thee  the  rounded  years  have  wrought; 
That  life  will  live,  however  blown 

Like  vapor  on  the  summer  air ; 
That  power  perpetuates  its  own; 

That  silence  here  is  music  there. 


A  GEORGIA  VOLUNTEER 

BY   MARY   ASHLEY  TOWNSEND 

Far  up  the  lonely  mountain-side 

My  wandering  footsteps  led  ; 
The  moss  lay  thick  beneath  my  feet, 

The  pine  sighed  overhead. 
The  trace  of  a  dismantled  fort 

Lay  in  the  forest  nave, 
And  in  the  shadow  near  my  path 

I  saw  a  soldier's  grave. 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  195 

The  bramble  wrestled  with  the  weed 

Upon  the  lowly  mound; — 
The  simple  head-board,  rudely  writ, 

Had  rotted  to  the  ground ; 
I  raised  it  with  a  reverent  hand, 

From  dust  its  words  to  clear, 
But  time  had  blotted  all  but  these — 

"  A  Georgia  Volunteer !  " 

I  saw  the  toad  and  scaly  snake 

From  tangled  covert  start, 
And  hide  themselves  among  the  weeds 

Above  the  dead  man's  heart; 
But  undisturbed,  in  sleep  profound, 

Unheeding,  there  he  lay; 
His  coffin  but  the  mountain  soil, 

His  shroud  Confederate  gray. 

I  heard  the  Shenandoah  roll 

Along  the  vale  below, 
I  saw  the  Alleghanies  rise 

Towards  the  realms  of  snow. 
The  "  Valley  Campaign  "  rose  to  mind — 

Its  leader's  name — and  then 
I  knew  the  sleeper  had  been  one 

Of  Stonewall  Jackson's  men. 

Yet  whence  he  came,  what  lip  shall  say — 

Whose  tongue  will  ever  tell 
What  desolated  hearths  and  hearts 

Have  been  because  he  fell  ? 


196  MEMORIAL  DAY 

What  sad-eyed  maiden  braids  her  hair, 
Her  hair  which  he  held  dear? 

One  lock  of  which  perchance  lies  with 
The  Georgia  Volunteer! 

What  mother,  with  long  watching  eyes, 

And  white  lips  cold  and  dumb, 
Waits  with  appalling  patience  for 

Her  darling  boy  to  come? 
Her  boy !  whose  mountain  grave  swells  up 

But  one  of  many  a  scar, 
Cut  on  the  face  of  our  fair  land, 

By  gory-handed  war. 

What  fights  he  fought,  what  wounds  he  wore, 

Are  all  unknown  to  fame; 
Remember,  on  his  lonely  grave 

There  is  not  e'en  a  name! 
That  he  fought  well  and  bravely  too, 

And  held  his  country  dear, 
We  know,  else  he  had  never  been 

A  Georgia  Volunteer. 

He  sleeps — what  need  to  question  now 

If  he  were  wrong  or  right? 
He  knows,  ere  this,  whose  cause  was  just 

In  God  the  Father's  sight. 
He  wields  no  warlike  weapons  now, 

Returns  no  foeman's  thrust — 
Who  but  a  coward  would  revile 

An  honest  soldier's  dust? 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  197 

Roll,  Shenandoah,  proudly  roll, 

Adown  thy  rocky  glen, 
Above  thee  lies  the  grave  of  one 

Of  Stonewall  Jackson's  men. 
Beneath  the  cedar  and  the  pine, 

In  solitude  austere, 
Unknown,  unnamed,  forgotten,  lies 

A  Georgia  Volunteer. 


THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD 

BY  THEODORE  O'HARA 

The  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo  ; 
No  more  on  Life's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 
And  Glory  guards,  with  solemn  round, 

The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advance 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind; 
No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  haunts 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind ; 
No  vision  of  the  morrow's  strife 

The  warrior's  dream  alarms; 
No  braying  horn  nor  screaming  fife 

At  dawn  shall  call  to  arms. 


198  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Their  shivered  swords  are  red  with  rust, 

Their  plumed  heads  are  bowed ; 
Their  haughty  banner,  trailed  in  dust, 

Is  now  their  martial  shroud. 
And  plenteous  funeral  tears  have  washed 

The  red  stains  from  each  brow, 
And  the  proud  forms,  by  battle  gashed, 

Are  free  from  anguish  now. 

The  neighing  troop,  the  flashing  blade, 

The  bugle's  stirring  blast, 
The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade, 

The  din  and  shout,  are  past  ; 
Nor  war's  wild  note  nor  glory's  peal 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight 
Those  breasts  that  nevermore  may  feel 

The  rapture  of  the  fight. 

Like  the  fierce  northern  hurricane 

That  sweeps  his  great  plateau, 
Flushed  with  the  triumph  yet  to  gain, 

Came  down  the  serried  foe. 
Who  heard  the  thunder  of  the  fray 

Break  o'er  the  field  beneath, 
Knew  well  the  watchword  of  that  day 

Was  "  Victory  or  Death." 

Long  had  the  doubtful  conflict  raged 

O'er  all  that  stricken  plain, 
For  never  fiercer  fight  had  waged 

The  vengeful  blood  of  Spain; 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  199 

And  still  the  storm  of  battle  blew, 

Still  swelled  the  gory  tide ; 
Not  long,  our  stout  old  chieftain  knew, 

Such  odds  his  strength  could  bide. 

Twas  in  that  hour  his  stern  command 

Called  to  a  martyr's  grave 
The  flower  of  his  beloved  land, 

The  nation's  flag  to  save. 
By  rivers  of  their  fathers'  gore 

His  first-born  laurels  grew, 
And  well  he  deemed  the  sons  would  pour 

Their  lives  for  glory  too. 

Full  many  a  norther's  breath  has  swept 

O'er  Angostura's  plain, 
And  long  the  pitying  sky  has  wept 

Above  its  moldered  slain. 
The  raven's  scream,  or  eagle's  flight, 

Or  shepherd's  pensive  lay, 
Alone  awakes  each  sullen  height 

That  frowned  o'er  that  dread  fray. 

Sons  of  the  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground, 

Ye  must  not  slumber  there, 
Where  stranger  steps  and  tongues  resound 

Along  the  heedless  air. 
Your  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil 

Shall  be  your  fitter  grave : 
She  claims  from  war  his  richest  spoil — 

The  ashes  of  her  brave. 


200  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Thus  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest, 

Far  from  the  gory  field, 
Borne  to  a  Spartan  mother's  breast 

On  many  a  bloody  shield; 
The  sunshine  of  their  native  sky 

Smiles  sadly  on  them  here, 
And  kindred  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by 

The  heroes'  sepulchre. 

Rest  on,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead! 

Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave; 
No  impious  footstep  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave ; 
Nor  shall  your  glory  be  forgot 

While  Fame  her  record  keeps, 
Or  Honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 

Where  Valor  proudly  sleeps. 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone 

In  deathless  song  shall  tell, 
When  many  a  vanished  age  hath  flown, 

The  story  how  ye  fell; 
Nor  wreck,  nor  change,  nor  winter's  blight, 

Nor  Time's  remorseless  doom, 
Shall  dim  one  ray  of  glory's  light 

That  gilds  your  deathless  tomb. 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  201 

MEMORIALS 

On  the  Slain  at  Chickamauga 

BY   HERMAN    MELVILLE 

Happy  are  they  and  charmed  in  life 

Who  through  long  wars  arrive  unscarred 
At  peace.     To  such  the  wreath  be  given, 
If  they  unfalteringly  have  striven — 

In  honor,  as  in  limb,  unmarred. 
Let  cheerful  praise  be  rife, 

And  let  them  live  their  years  at  ease, 
Musing  on  brothers  who  victorious  died — 

Loved  mates  whose  memory  shall  ever  please. 

And  yet  mischance  is  honorable  too — 

Seeming  defeat  in  conflict  justified, 
Whose  end  to  closing  eyes  is  hid  from  view 
The  will,  that  never  can  relent — 
Long  as  the  stars  do  gleam  upon  it 
Shall  memory  come  to  dream  upon  it. 


ELEGIAC 

BY    JAMES   GATES   PERCIVAL 

O,  it  is  great  for  our  country  to  die,  where  ranks  are 

contending ! 

Bright  is  the  wreath  of  our  fame ;  glory  awaits  us  for 
aye,— 


202  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Glory,  that  never  is  dim,  shining  on  -with  light  never 

ending, — 
Glory  that  never  shall  fade,  never,  O  never,  away! 

O,  it  is  sweet  for  our  country  to  die!     How  softly 

reposes 
Warrior  youth  on  his  bier,  wet  by  the  tears  of  his 

love, 
Wet  by  a  mother's  warm  tears.     They  crown  him  with 

garlands  of  roses, 

Weep,  and  then  joyously  turn,  bright  where  he  tri 
umphs  above. 

Not  to  the  shades  shall  the  youth  descend,  who  for 

country  hath  perished ; 
Hebe  awaits  him  in  heaven,  welcomes  him  there 

with  her  smile; 

There,  at  the  banquet  divine,  the  patriot  spirit  is  cher 
ished  ; 

Gods  love  the  young  who  ascend  pure   from  the 
funeral  pile. 

Not  to  Elysian  fields,  by  the  still,  oblivious  river ; 
Not  to  the  isles  of  the  blest,  over  the  blue,  rolling 

sea; 

But  on  Olympian  heights  shall  dwell  the  devoted  for 
ever  ; 

There    shall    assemble    the    good,    there    the    wise, 
valiant,  and  free. 

O,  then,  how  great  for  our  country  to  die,  in  the  front 

rank  to  perish, 

Firm  with  our  breast  to  the  foe,  victory's  shout  in 
our  ear ! 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  203 

Long  they  our  statues  shall  crown,  in  songs  our  mem 
ory  cherish ; 

We  shall  look  forth  from  our  heaven,  pleased  the 
sweet  music  to  hear. 


VANQUISHED 

BY  FRANCIS  FISHER  BROWNE 


Not  by  the  ball  or  brand 
Sped  by  a  mortal  hand, 
Not  by  the  lightning  stroke 
When  fiery  tempests  broke, — 
Not  mid  the  ranks  of  War 
Fell  the  great  Conqueror. 

ii 

Unmoved,  undismayed, 

In  the  crash  and  carnage  of  the  cannonade, — 

Eye  that  dimmed  not,  hand  that  failed  not, 

Brain  that  swerved  not,  heart  that  quailed  not, 

Steel  nerve,  iron  form, — 

The  dauntless  spirit  that  o'erruled  the  storm. 

in 

While  the  Hero  peaceful  slept 
A  foeman  to  his  chamber  crept, 
Lightly  to  the  slumberer  came, 
Touched  his  brow  and  breathed  his  name : 
O'er  the  stricken  form  there  passed 
Suddenly  an  icy  blast. 


204  MEMORIAL  DAY 


IV 


The  Hero  woke,  rose  undismayed, 
Saluted  Death,  and  sheathed  his  blade. 


The  Conqueror  of  a  hundred  fields 
To  a  mightier  Conqueror  yields; 
No  mortal  foeman's  blow 
Laid  the  great  Soldier  low : 
Victor  in  his  latest  breath — 
Vanquished  but  by  Death. 


THE  NATION'S  DEAD 

ANONYMOUS 

Four  hundred  thousand  men 
The  brave — the  good — the  true, 

In  tangled  wood,  in  mountain  glen, 

On  battle  plain,  in  prison  pen, 
Lie  dead  for  me  and  you! 

Four  hundred  thousand  of  the  brave 

Have  made  our  ransomed  soil  their  grave, 

For  me  and  you  ! 
Good  friend,  for  me  and  you ! 

In  many  a  fevered  swamp, 

By  many  a  black  bayou, 
In  many  a  cold  and  frozen  camp, 
The  weary  sentinel  ceased  his  tramp, 

And  died  for  me  and  you ! 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  205 

From  western  plain  to  ocean  tide 

Are  stretched  the  graves  of  those  who  died 

For  me  and  you  ! 
Good  friend,  for  me  and  you! 


On  many  a  bloody  plain 

Their  ready  swords  they  drew, 
And  poured  their  life-blood  like  the  rain 
A  home — a  heritage  to  gain, 

To  gain  for  me  and  you! 
Our  brothers  mustered  by  our  side ; 
They  marched,  they  fought,  and  bravely  died 
For  me  and  you ! 

Good  friend,  for  me  and  you ! 


Up  many  a  fortress  wall 

They  charged — those  boys  in  blue — 
'Mid  surging  smoke,  the  volley'd  ball ; 
The  bravest  were  the  first  to  fall ! 

To  fall  for  me  and  you ! 
These  noble  men — the  Nation's  pride — 
Four  hundred  thousand  men  have  died 
For  me  and  you ! 

Good  friend,  for  me  and  you ! 

In  treason's  prison-hold 

Their  martyr  spirits  grew 
To  stature  like  the  saints  of  old, 
While  amid  agonies  untold, 

They  starved  for  me  and  you ! 


206  MEMORIAL  DAY 

The  good,  the  patient,  and  the  tried, 
Four  hundred  thousand  men  have  died 

For  me  and  you  ! 
Good  friend,  for  me  and  you ! 

A  debt  we  ne'er  can  pay 

To  them  is  justly  due, 
And  to  the  Nation's  latest  day 
Our  children's  children  still  shall  say, 

"  They  died  for  me  and  you !  " 
Four  hundred  thousand  of  the  brave 
Made  this,  our  ransomed  soil,  their  grave, 
For  me  and  you ! 

Good  friend,  for  me  and  you ! 


A  BALLAD  OF  HEROES 

BY    AUSTIN    DOBSON 
"  Now  all  your  victories  are  in  vain." 

Because  you  passed,  and  now  are  not — 
Because  in  some  remoter  day 

Your  sacred  dust  in  doubtful  spot 
Was  blown  of  ancient  airs  away — 
Because  you  perished — must  men  say 

Your  deeds  were  naught,  and  so  profane 
Your  lives  with  that  cold  burden  ?  Nay, 

The  deeds  you  wrought  are  not  in  vain. 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  207 

Though  it  may  be,  above  the  plot 

That  hid  your  once  imperial  clay, 
No  greener  than  o'er  men  forgot 

The  unregarding  grasses  sway; 

Though  there  no  sweeter  is  the  lay 
Of  careless  bird;  though  you  remain 

Without  distinction  of  decay, 
The  deeds  you  wrought  are  not  in  vain. 

No,  for  while  yet  in  tower  or  cot 

Your  story  stirs  the  pulse's  play, 
And  men  forget  the  sordid  lot — 

The  sordid  cares — of  cities  gray ; 

While  yet  they  grow  for  homelier  fray 
More  strong  from  you,  as  reading  plain 

That  Life  may  go,  if  Honor  stay, 
The  deeds  you  wrought  are  not  in  vain. 


ENVOY 

Heroes  of  old,  I  humbly  lay 

The  laurel  on  your  graves  again; 

Whatever  men  have  done,  men  may — 
The  deeds  you  wrought  are  not  in  vain. 


208  MEMORIAL  DAY 

THE  DEAD  COMRADE  * 

BY    RICHARD    WATSON    GILDER 

At  the  Burial  of  Grant,  a  Bugler  Stood  Forth  and 
Sounded  "Taps" 

Come,  soldiers,  arouse  ye ! 

Another  has  gone ; 
Let  us  bury  our  comrade, 

His  battles  are  done. 
His  sun  it  is  set  ; 

He  was  true,  he  was  brave, 

He  feared  not  the  grave, 
There  is  naught  to  regret. 

Bring  music  and  banners 

And  wreaths  for  his  bier, — 
No  fault  of  the  fighter 

That  Death  conquered  here. 
Bring  him  home  ne'er  to  rove, 

Bear  him  home  to  his  rest, 

And  over  his  breast 
Fold  the  flag  of  his  love. 

Great  Captain  of  battles, 

We  leave  him  with  Thee ! 
What  was  wrong,  O  forgive  it ; 

His  spirit  make  free. 

1  By  permission  of  the  publishers,  Houghton,  MifRin  &  Co. 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  209 

Sound  taps,  and  away! 

Out  light,  and  to  bed ! 

Farewell,  soldier  dead! 
Farewell — for  a  day. 


THE  VOLUNTEER 

BY   FRANK    L.    STANTON 

The  band  was  playing  "  Dixie  "  when  he  marched, 

marched  away; 

An'  never  any  likelier  lad  stept  time  to  it  that  day; 
"  The  finest  fellow  of  'em  all !  "  I  heard  the  town-folk 

say. 
The    band    was    playin'    "  Dixie "    as    he    marched, 

marched  away. 

How  fast  my  wild  arms  held  him, — my  boy,  who  would 

not  stay, — 
The  likeliest  lad  that  answered  to  the  captain's  call 

that  day ! 

"  The  finest  fellow  of  'em  all !  "    An'  in  the  red  array 
Of  flags  that  rippled  over  them  they  marched  my  lad 

away! 

But   a  mother's   fears  and   prayers   and  tears   were 

nothing.     War  must  slay, 
And  the  draped,   deep  drums  were  muffled  as  they 

brought  him  home  that  day ! 
"  The  finest  fellow  of  'em  all !  "  I  heard  the  town-folk 

say, 
And  his  mother  bendin'  over  him, — dead  at  her  feet 

that  day ! 

(Southern.) 


210  MEMORIAL  DAY 

THE  SMALLEST  OF  THE  DRUMS 

BY   JAMES   BUCKHAM 

When  the  opulence  of  summer  unto  wood  and  meadow 

comes, 
And  within  the  tangled  graveyard  riot  old-time  spice 

and  bloom, 
Then  dear  Nature  brings  her  tribute  to  the  "  smallest 

of  the  drums," 

Spreads  the  sweetest  of  her  blossoms  on  the  little 
soldier's  tomb. 


In  the  quiet  country  village,  still  they  tell  you  how  he 

died; 
And  the  story  moves  you  strangely,  more  than  other 

tales  of  war. 

Thrice  heroic  seems  the  hero,  if  he  be  a  child  beside, 
And  the  wound  that  tears  his  bosom  is  more  sad 
than  others  far. 


In  the  ranks  of  Sherman's  army  none  so  young  and 

small  as  he, 
With  his  face  so  soft  and  dimpled,  and  his  innocent 

blue  eyes. 
Yet  of  all  the  Union  drummers  he  could  drum  most 

skillfully, 

With  a  spirit — said  his  colonel — fit  to  make  the  dead 
arise ! 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  211 

In  the  charge  of  Chickamauga   (so,  beside  his  little 

grave, 
You  may  learn  the  hero's  story  of  some  villager, 

perchance), 
When  his  regiment  sank,  broken,  from  the  rampart, 

like  a  wave, 

Thrice  the  clangor  of  his  drum-beat   rallied  to  a 
fresh  advance. 


There  he  stood  upon  the  hillside,  capless,  with  his 

shining  hair 
Blown  about  his  childish  forehead  like  the  bright 

silk  of  the  corn ; 
And  the  men  looked  up  and  saw  him  standing  brave 

and  scathless  there, 
As  an  angel  on  a  hilltop,  in  the  drifting  mist  of  morn. 

Thrice  they  rallied  at  his  drum-beat, — then  the  tat 
tered  flag  went  down ! 

Someone   caught  it,   waved  it  skyward   for  a  mo 
ment,  and  then  fell. 
In  the  dust,  the  gore,  and  drabble,  all  the  stars  of 

freedom's  crown, 

And  the  soldiers  beaten  backward  from  the  emblem 
loved  so  well! 

Then  our  drummer-boy,  our  hero,  from  his  neck  the 

drum-cord  flung 

And  amid-  the  hail  of  bullets  to  the  fallen  banner 
sped. 


212  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Quick  he  raised  it  from  dishonor;  quick  before  them 

all  he  sprung, 

And  in  fearless,  proud  defiance,  waved  the  old  flag 
o'er  his  head! 

For  a  minute's  space  the  cheering,  louder  than  the  sing 
ing  balls, 
And  the  soldiers  pressing  forward,  closing  up  their 

broken  line, 
Then  the  child's  bright  head,  death-stricken,  on  his 

throbbing  bosom  falls, 

And  the  brave  eyes  that  God  lighted  cease  with  life 
and  soul  to  shine. 

In  the  flag  he  saved  they  wrapped  him ;  in  that  starry 

shroud  he  lies, 
And  the  roses,  and  the  lilacs,  and  the  daisies  seem  to 

know; 

For  in  all  that  peaceful  acre,  sleeping  'neath  the  sum 
mer  skies, 

There  is  neither  mound  nor  tablet  that  is  wreathed 
and  guarded  so ! 


THE  VOLUNTEER 

BY  ELBRIDGE  JEFFERSON  CUTLER 

"  At  dawn,"  he  said,  "  I  bid  them  all  farewell, 
To  go  where  bugles  call  and  rifles  gleam." 

And  with  the  restless  thought  asleep  he  fell, 
And  glided  into  dream. 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  213 

A  great  hot  plain  from  sea  to  mountain  spread, — 
Through  it  a  level  river  slowly  drawn; 

He  moved  with  a  vast  crowd,  and  at  its  head 
Streamed  banners  like  the  dawn. 

» 

There  came  a  blinding  flash,  a  deafening  roar, 
And  dissonant  cries  of  triumph  and  dismay ; 

Blood  trickled  down  the  river's  reedy  shore, 
And  with  the  dead  he  lay. 

The  morn  broke  in  upon  his  solemn  dreams, 
And  still  with  steady  pulse  and  deepening  eye, 

"  Where  bugles  call,"  he  said,  "  and  rifles  gleam, 
I  follow,  though  I  die !  " 

Wise  youth  !    By  few  is  glory's  wreath  attained ; 

But  death,  or  late  or  soon,  awaiteth  all, 
To  fight  in  Freedom's  cause  is  something  gained, — 

And  nothing  lost  to  fall. 


OUR  HEROES 

BY  JOHN  ALBION  ANDREW 

The  heart  swells  with  unwonted  emotion  when  we 
remember  our  sons  and  brothers,  whose  constant  valor 
has  sustained  on  the  field  the  cause  of  our  country, 
of  civilization,  and  liberty.  On  the  ocean,  on  the  riv 
ers,  on  the  land,  on  the  heights  where  they  thundered 
down  from  the  clouds  of  Lookout  Mountain  the  de- 


214  MEMORIAL  DAY 

fiance  of  the  skies,  they  have  graven  with  their  swords 
a  record  imperishable. 

The  Muse  herself  demands  the  lapse  of  silent  years 
to  soften,  by  the  influence  of  time,  her  too  keen  and 
poignant  realization  of  the  scenes  of  War, — the  pathos, 
the  heroism,  the  fierce  joy,  the  grief  of  battle.  But 
during  the  ages  to  come  she  will  brood  over  their 
memory.  Into  the  hearts  of  her  consecrated  priests 
she  will  breathe  the  inspirations  of  lofty  and  undying 
beauty,  sublimity,  and  truth,  in  all  the  glowing  forms 
of  speech,  of  literature,  and  plastic  art.  By  the  homely 
traditions  of  the  fireside,  by  the  headstones  in  the 
churchyard  consecrated  to  those  whose  forms  repose" 
far  off  in  rude  graves,  or  sleep  beneath  the  sea,  em 
balmed  in  the  memories  of  succeeding  generations  of 
parents  and  children,  the  heroic  dead  will  live  on  in 
immortal  youth. 

The  bell  which  rang  out  the  Declaration  of  Inde 
pendence  has  found  at  last  a  voice  articulate,  to  "  pro 
claim  liberty  throughout  all  the  land  unto  all  the  in 
habitants  thereof."  It  has  been  heard  across  oceans, 
and  has  modified  the  sentiments  of  cabinets  and  kings. 
The  people  of  the  Old  World  have  heard  it,  and  their 
hearts  stop  to  catch  the  last  whisper  of  its  echoes.  The 
poor  slave  has  heard  it;  and  with  bounding  joy,  tem 
pered  by  the  mystery  of  religion,  he  worships  and 
adores.  The  waiting  continent  has  heard  it,  and  al 
ready  foresees  the  fulfilled  prophecy,  when  she  will  sit 
"  redeemed,  regenerated,  and  disenthralled  by  the 
irresistible  Genius  of  Universal  Emancipation." 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  215 

COME  UP  FROM  THE  FIELDS,  FATHER1 

BY  WALT  WHITMAN 

Come  up  from  the  fields,  father,  here's  a  letter  from 

our  Pete, 
And  come  to  the  front  door,  mother,  here's  a  letter 

from  thy  dear  son. 

Lo,  'tis  autumn, 

Lo,  where  the  trees,  deeper  green,  yellower  and  redder, 

Cool  and  sweeten  Ohio's  villages  with  leaves  flutter 
ing  in  the  moderate  wind, 

Where  apples  ripe  in  the  orchards  hang  and  grapes 
on  the  trellis'd  vines, 

( Smell  you  the  smell  of  the  grapes  on  the  vines  ? 

Smell  you  the  buckwheat  where  the  bees  were  lately 
buzzing?) 

Above  all,  lo,  the  sky  so  calm,  so  transparent  after 
the  rain,  and  with  wondrous  clouds, 

Below  too,  all  calm,  all  vital  and  beautiful  and  the 
farm  prospers  well. 

Down  in  the  fields  all  prospers  well, 

But  now  from  the  fields  come,   father,  come  at  the 

daughter's  call, 
And  come  to  the  entry,  mother,  to  the  front  door  come 

right  away. 

1  By   permission   of   the   publisher,   David   McKay,   Phila 
delphia. 


216  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Fast  as  she  can  she  hurries,  something  ominous,  her 
steps  trembling, 

She  does  not  tarry  to  smooth  her  hair  nor  adjust  her 
cap. 

Open  the  envelope  quickly, 

O  this  is  not  our  son's  writing,  yet  his  name  is  sign'd, 

O  a  strange  hand  writes  for  our  dear  son,  O  stricken 
mother's  soul ! 

All  swims  before  her  eyes,  flashes  with  black,  she 
catches  the  main  words  only, 

Sentences  broken,  gunshot  wound  in  the  breast,  cav 
alry  skirmish,  taken  to  hospital, 

At  present  low,  but  will  soon  be  better. 

Ah  now  the  single  figure  to  me, 

Amid  all  teeming  and  wealthy  Ohio  with  all  its  cities 

and  farms, 
Sickly  white  in  the  face  and  dull  in  the  head,  very 

faint, 
By  the  jamb  of  a  door  leans. 

Grieve  not  so,  dear  mother  (the  just-grown  daughter 
speaks  through  her  sobs, 

The  little  sisters  huddle  around  speechless  and  dis 
may 'd,) 

See,  dearest  mother,  the  letter  says  Pete  will  soon  be 
better. 

Alas  poor  boy,  he  will  never  be  better,  (nor  may-be 
needs  to  be  better,  that  brave  and  simple  soul,) 

While  they  stand  at  home  at  the  door  he  is  dead  al 
ready, 

The  only  son  is  dead. 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  217 

But  the  mother  needs  to  be  better, 

She  with  thin  form  presently  drest  in  black, 

By  day  her  meals   untouch'd,   then  at  night  fitfully 

sleeping,  often  waking, 
In  the  midnight  waking,  weeping,  longing  with  one 

deep  longing, 
O  that  she  might  withdraw   unnoticed,   silent   from 

life  escape  and  withdraw, 
To  follow,  to  seek,  to  be  with  her  dear  dead  son. 


THE  DEATH  OF  GRANT 

BY   AMBROSE   BIERCE 

Father !  whose  hard  and  cruel  law 

Is  part  of  thy  compassion's  plan, 
Thy  works  presumptuously  we  scan 

For  what  the  prophets  say  they  saw. 

Unbidden  still,  the  awful  slope 

Walling  us  in,  we  climb  to  gain 
Assurance  of  the  shining  plain 

That  faith  has  certified  to  hope. 

In  vain :  beyond  the  circling  hill 

The  shadow  and  the  cloud  abide ; 
Subdue  the  doubt,  our  spirits  guide 

To  trust  the  Record  and  be  still ; 


218  MEMORIAL  DAY 

To  trust  it  loyally  as  he 

Who,  heedful  of  his  high  design, 
Ne'er  raised  a  seeking  eye  to  thine, 

But  wrought  thy  will  unconsciously, 

Disputing  not  of  chance  or  fate, 

Nor  questioning  of  cause  or  creed : 
For  anything  but  duty's  deed 

Too  simply  wise,  too  humbly  great. 

The  cannon  syllabled  his  name; 

His  shadow  shifted  o'er  the  land, 
Portentous,  as  at  his  command 

Successive  cities  sprang  to  flame ! 

He  fringed  the  continent  with  fire, 
The  rivers  ran  in  lines  of  light! 
Thy  will  be  done  on  earth — if  right 

Or  wrong  he  cared  not  to  inquire. 

His  was  the  heavy  hand,  and  his 
The  service  of  the  despot  blade ; 
His  the  soft  answer  that  allayed 

War's  giant  animosities. 

Let  us  have  peace :  our  clouded  eyes 
Fill,  Father,  with  another  light, 
That  we  may  see  with  clearer  sight 

Thy  servant's  soul  in  Paradise. 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  219 

THE  BURIAL  OF  GRANT  * 
New  York,  August  8,  1885 

BY    RICHARD    WATSON    GILDER 

Ye  living  soldiers  of  the  mighty  war, 

Once  more  from  roaring  cannon  and  the  drums 
And  bugles  blown  at  morn,  the  summons  comes; 
Forget  the  halting  limb,  each  wound  and  scar; 
Once  more  your  Captain  calls  to  you ; 
Come  to  his  last  review ! 

And  come  ye,  too,  bright  spirits  of  the  dead, 

Ye  who  went  heavenward  from  the  embattled  field ; 
And  ye  whose  harder  fate  it  was  to  yield 
Life  from  the  loathful  prison  or  anguished  bed : 
Dear  ghosts !  come  join  your  comrades  here 
Beside  this  sacred  bier. 

Nor  be  ye  absent,  ye  immortal  band, 

Warriors  of  ages  past,  and  our  own  age, — 
Who  drew  the  sword  for  right,  and  not  in  rage, 
Made  war  that  peace  might  live  in  all  the  land, 
Nor  ever  struck  one  vengeful  blow, 
But  helped  the  fallen  foe. 

And  fail  not  ye — but,  ah,  ye  falter  not— 
To  join  his  army  of  the  dead  and  living, 
Ye  who  once  felt  his  might,  and  his  forgiving : 

1  By  permission  of  the  publishers,  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 


220  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Brothers,  whom  more  in  love  than  hate  he  smote. 
For  all  his  countrymen  make  room 
By  our  great  hero's  tomb ! 

Come  soldiers, — not  to  battle  as  of  yore, 

But  come  to  weep ;  ay,  shed  your  noblest  tears ; 
For  lo,  the  stubborn  chief,  who  knew  not  fears, 
Lies  cold  at  last,  ye  shall  not  see  him  more. 
How  long  grim  Death  he  fought  and  well, 
That,  poor,  lean  frame  doth  tell. 

All's  over  now;  here  let  our  Captain  rest, 
Silent  amid  the  blare  of  praise  and  blame ; 
Here  let  him  rest,  alone  with  his  great  fame, — 
Here  in  the  city's  heart  he  loved  the  best, 
And  where  our  sons  his  tomb  may  see 
To  make  them  brave  as  he : — 

As  brave  as  he — he  on  whose  iron  arm 

Our  Greatest  leaned,  our  gentlest  and  most  wise, — 
Leaned  when  all  other  help  seemed  mocking  lies, 
While  this  one  soldier  checked  the  tide  of  harm, 
And  they  together  saved  the  State, 
And  made  it  free  and  great. 


THE  GRAVES  OF  THE  PATRIOTS 

BY  JAMES  GATES  PERCIVAL 

Here  rest  the  great  and  good, — here  they  repose 
After  their  generous  toil.     A  sacred  band, 
They  take  their  sleep  together,  while  the  year 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  221 

Comes  with  its  early  flowers  to  deck  their  graves, 

And  gather  them  again,  as  winter  frowns. 

Theirs  is  no  vulgar  sepulcher, — green  sods 

Are  all  their  monument;  and  yet  it  tells 

A  nobler  history  than  pillared  piles, 

Or  the  eternal  pyramids.     They  need 

No  statue  nor  inscription  to  reveal 

Their  greatness.     It  is  round  them ;  and  the  joy 

With  which  their  children  tread  the  hallowed  ground 

That  holds  their  venerated  bones,  the  peace 

That  smiles  on  all  they  fought  for,  and  the  wealth 

That  clothes  the  land  they  rescued, — these,   though 

mute 

As  feeling  ever  is  when  deepest, — these 
Are  monuments  more  lasting  than  the  fanes 
Reared  to  the  kings  and  demi-gods  of  old. 
Touch  not  the  ancient  elms,  that  bend  their  shade 
Over  the  lowly  graves;  beneath  their  boughs 
There  is  a  solemn  darkness,  even  at  noon, 
Suited  to  such  as  visit  at  the  shrine 
Of  serious  liberty.     No  factious  voice 
Called  them  unto  the  field  of  generous  fame, 
But  the  pure  consecrated  love  of  home. 
No  deeper  feeling  sways  us,  when  it  wakes 
In  all  its  greatness.     It  has  told  itself 
To  the  astonished  gaze  of  awe-struck  kings, 
At  Marathon,  at  Bannockburn,  and  here, 
Where  first  our  patriots  sent  the  invader  back, 
Broken  and  cowed.     Let  these  green  elms  be  all 
To  tell  us  where  they  fought,  and  where  they  lie. 
Their  feelings  were  all  nature ;  and  they  need 
No  art  to  make  them  known.     They  live  in  us, 


222  MEMORIAL  DAY 

While  we  are  like  them,  simple,  hardy,  bold, 
Worshiping  nothing  but  our  own  pure  hearts 
And  the  one  universal  Lord.     They  need 
No  column  pointing  to  the  heaven  they  sought 
To  tell  us  of  their  home.     The  heart  itself, 
Left  to  its  own  free  purposes,  hastens  there, 
And  there  alone  reposes.     Let  these  elms 
Bend  their  protecting  shades  o'er  their  graves, 
And  build  with  their  green  roof  the  only  fane, 
Where  we  may  gather  on  the  hallowed  day, 
That  rose  to  them  in  blood,  and  set  in  glory. 
Here  let  us  meet ;  and  while  our  motionless  lips 
Give  not  a  sound,  and  all  around  is  mute 
In  the  deep  sabbath  of  a  heart  too  full 
For  words  or  tears, — here  let  us  strew  the  sod 
With  the  first  flowers  of  spring,  and  make  to  them 
An  offering  of  the  plenty  Nature  gives, 
And  they  have  rendered  ours, — perpetually. 


O  CAPTAIN!  MY  CAPTAIN!1 

BY  WALT  WHITMAN 

O  Captain !  my  Captain !  our  fearful  trip  is  done, 

The  ship  has  weathered  every  rack,  the  prize  we  sought 
is  won, 

The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  ex 
ulting, 

While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and 
daring ; 

1  By   permission   of   the   publisher,   David   McKay,   Phila 
delphia. 


THE  HEROIC  DEAD  223 

But  O  heart !  heart !  heart ! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 

Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain!  my  Captain!  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells; 
Rise  up — for  you  the  flag  is  flung — for  you  the  bugle 

trills, 
For  you  bouquets  and  ribboned  wreaths — for  you  the 

shores  acrowding, 
For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces 

turning ; 

Here  Captain!  dear  father! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head! 
It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck 
You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still, 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor 

will, 
The  ship  is  anchored  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed 

and  done, 

From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  ob 
ject  won ; 

Exult  O  shores,  and  ring  O  bells ! 
But  I,  with  mournful  tread, 

Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 


V 
REUNITED 


THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY 

BY    FRANCIS    MILES    FINCH 

By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river, 

Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  have  fled, 
Where  the  blades  of  the  grave-grass  quiver, 
Asleep  are  the  ranks  of  the  dead: 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

These  in  the  robings  of  glory, 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat, 
All   with  the  battle-blood  gory, 
In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet: 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours 

The  desolate  mourners  go, 
Lovingly  laden  with  flowers 

Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe: 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
227 


228  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Under  the  roses,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  lilies,  the  Gray. 

So  with  an  equal  splendor, 

The  morning  sun-rays  fall, 
With  a  touch  impartially  tender, 
On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all : 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue, 
Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Gray. 

So,  when  the  summer  calleth, 

On  forest  and  field  of  grain, 
With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 
The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain : 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue, 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding, 
The  generous  deed  was  done, 
In  the  storm  of  the  years  that  are  fading 
No  braver  battle  was  won : 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray. 

No  more  shall  the  war  cry  sever, 
Or  the  winding  rivers  be  red; 


REUNITED  229 

They  banish  our  anger  forever 

When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead! 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Love  and  tears  for  the  Blue, 
Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray. 


NORTH  TO  THE  SOUTH 

BY  RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER 

Land  of  the  South,  whose  stricken  heart  and  brow 
Bring  grief  to  eyes  that  erewhile  only  knew 

For  their  own  loss  to  sorrow, — spurn  not  thou 
These  tribute  tears, — ah,  we  have  suffered  too. 

New  Orleans,  1885. 


DEATH  THE  PEACEMAKER 
The  Blue  and  the  Gray 

BY  ELLEN   H.  FLAGG 

A  waste  of  land,  a  sodden  plain, 

A  lurid  sunset  sky, 
With  clouds  that  fled  and  faded  fast 

In  ghastly  phantasy ; 


23o  MEMORIAL  DAY 

A  field  upturned  by  trampling  feet, 

A  field  up-piled  with  slain, 
With  horse  and  rider  blent  in  death 

Upon  the  battle-plain. 

Two  soldiers,  lying  as  they  fell 

Upon  the  reddened  clay, 
In  daytime,  foes ;  at  night,  in  peace, 

Breathing  their  lives  away. 
Brave  hearts  had  stirred  each  manly  breast ; 

Fate  only  made  them  foes; 
And  lying,  dying,  side  by  side, 

A  softened  feeling  rose. 

"  Our  time  is   short,"  one   faint  voice  said. 

'  To-day  we've  done  our  best 
On  different  sides.     What  matters  now? 

To-morrow  we're  at  rest. 
Life  lies  behind.     I  might  not  care 

For  only  my  own  sake ; 
But  far  away  are  other  hearts 

That  this  day's  work  will  break. 

"  Among  New  Hampshire's  snowy  hills 

There  pray  for  me,  to-night, 
A  woman,  and  a  little  girl, 

With  hair  like  golden  light." 
And  at  the  thought  broke  forth,  at  last 

The  cry  of  anguish  wild 
That  would  no  longer  be  repressed — 

"  O  God!  my  wife  and  child!  " 


REUNITED  231 

"  And,"  said  the  other  dying  man, 

"  Across  the  Georgia  plain 
There  watch  and  wait  for  me  loved  ones 

I'll  never  see  again. 
A  little  girl  with  dark  bright  eyes 

Each  day  waits  at  the  door ; 
The  father's  step,  the  father's  kiss, 

Will  never  meet  her  more. 

"  To-day  we  sought  each  other's  lives  ; 

Death  levels  all  that  now, 
For  soon  before  God's  mercy-seat 

Together  shall  we  bow. 
Forgive  each  other  while  we  may; 

Life's  but  a  weary  game  ; 
And  right  or  wrong,  the  morning  sun 

Will  find  us  dead  the  same." 

The  dying  lips  the  pardon  breathe, 

The  dying  hands  entwine  ; 
The  last  ray  dies,  and  over  all 

The  stars  from  heaven  shine; 
And  the  little  girl  with  golden  hair, 

And  one  with  dark  eyes  bright, 
On  Hampshire's  hills  and  Georgia  plain, 

Were  fatherless  that  night 


232  MEMORIAL  DAY 

GETTYSBURG:    A    MECCA   FQR   THE   BLUE 
AND  GRAY 

From  an  Address  by  General  John  B.  Gordon,  Gov 
ernor  of  Georgia,  July  3,  1888 

Of  all  the  martial  virtues,  the  one  which  is  perhaps 
most  characteristic  of  the  truly  brave  is  the  virtue  of 
magnanimity.  That  sentiment,  immortalized  by  Scott 
in  his  musical  and  martial  verse,  will  associate  for 
all  time  the  name  of  Scotland's  king  with  those  of 
the  great  spirits  of  the  past.  How  grand  the  exhibi 
tions  of  the  same  generous  impulses  that  characterize 
this  memorable  battlefield !  My  fellow-countrymen  of 
the  North,  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  speak  for  those 
whom  I  represent,  let  me  assure  you  that  in  the  pro- 
foundest  depths  of  their  nature,  they  reciprocate  that 
generosity  with  all  the  manliness  and  sincerity  of  which 
they  are  capable.  In  token  of  that  sincerity  they  join 
in  consecrating,  for  annual  patriotic  pilgrimage,  these 
historic  heights,  which  drank  such  copious  draughts 
of  American  blood,  poured  so  freely  in  discharge  of 
duty,  as  each  conceived  it, — a  Mecca  for  the  North, 
which  so  grandly  defended,  a  Mecca  for  the  South, 
which  so  bravely  and  persistently  stormed  it.  We  join 
you  in  setting  apart  this  land  as  an  enduring  monu 
ment  of  peace,  brotherhood,  and  perpetual  union.  I 
repeat  the  thought  with  emphasis,  with  singleness  of 
heart  and  of  purpose,  in  the  name  of  a  common  coun 
try,  and  of  universal  liberty ;  and  by  the  blood  of  our 
fallen  brothers,  we  unite  in  the  solemn  consecration 


REUNITED  233 

of  these  hallowed  hills,  as  a  holy,  eternal  pledge  of 
fidelity  to  the  life,  freedom,  and  unity  of  this  cher 
ished  Republic. 


OVER  THEIR  GRAVES 

BY  HENRY  JEROME  STOCKARD 

Over  their  graves  rang  once  the  bugle's  call, 
The  searching  shrapnel  and  the  crashing  ball; 
The  shriek,  the  shock  of  battle,  and  the  neigh 
Of  horse ;  the  cries  of  anguish  and  dismay ; 
And  the  loud  cannon's  thunders  that  appall. 

Now  through  the  years  the  brown  pine-needles  fall, 
The  vines  run  riot  by  the  old  stone  wall, 
By  hedge,  by  meadow  streamlet,  far  away, 
Over  their  graves. 

We  love  our  dead  where'er  so  held  in  thrall. 

Than  they  no  Greek  more  bravely  died,  nor  Gaul — 
A  love  that's  deathless ! — but  they  look  to-day 
With  no  reproaches  on  us  when  we  say, 

"  Come,  let  us  clasp  your  hands,  we're  brothers  all, 
Over  their  graves !  " 


234         MEMORIAL  DAY 

THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY 

ANONYMOUS 

Each  thin  hand  resting  on  a  grave, 

Her  lips  apart  in  prayer, 
A  mother  knelt,  and  left  her  tears 

Upon  the  violets  there. 
O'er  many  a  rood  of  vale  and  lawn, 

Of  hill  and  forest  gloom, 
The  reaper  Death  had  reveled  in 

His  fearful  harvest  home. 
The  last  unquiet  summer  shone 

Upon  a  fruitless  fray; 
From  yonder  forest  charged  the  blue — 

Down  yonder  slope  the  gray. 

The  hush  of  death  was  on  the  scene, 

And  sunset  o'er  the  dead, 
In  that  oppressive  stillness, 

A  pall  of  glory  spread. 
I  know  not,  dare  not  question  how 

I  met  the  ghastly  glare 
Of  each  upturned  and  stirless  face 

That  shrunk  and  whitened  there. 
I  knew  my  noble  boys  had  stood 

Through  all  that  withering  day, 
I  knew  that  Willie  wore  the  blue, 

That  Harry  wore  the  gray. 

I  thought  of  Willie's  clear  blue  eye, 
His  wavy  hair  of  gold, 


REUNITED  235 

That  clustered  on  a  fearless  brow 

Of  purest  Saxon  mold ; 
Of  Harry,  with  his  raven  locks 

And  eagle  glance  of  pride; 
Of  how  they  clasped  each  other's  hand 

And  left  their  mother's  side ; 
How  hand  in  hand  they  bore  my  prayers 

And  blessings  on  the  way — 
A  noble  heart  beneath  the  blue, 

Another  'neath  the  gray. 

The  dead,  with  white  and  folded  hands, 

That  hushed  our  village  homes, 
I've  seen  laid  calmly,  tenderly, 

Within  their  darkened  rooms ; 
But  there  I  saw  distorted  limbs, 

And  many  an  eye  aglare, 
In  the  soft  purple  twilight  of 

The  thunder-smitten  air. 
Along  the  slope  and  on  the  sward 

In  ghastly  ranks  they  lay, 
And  there  was  blood  upon  the  blue 

And  blood  upon  the  gray. 

I  looked  and  saw  his  blood,  and  his ; 

A  swift  and  vivid  dream 
Of  blended  years  flashed  o'er  me,  when, 

Like  some  cold  shadow,  came 
A  blindness  of  the  eye  and  brain — 

The  same  that  seizes  one 
When  men  are  smitten  suddenly 

Who  overstare  the  sun ; 


236  MEMORIAL  DAY 

And  while,  blurred  with  the  sudden  stroke 

That  swept  my  soul,  I  lay, 
They  buried  Willie  in  his  blue, 

And  Harry  in  his  gray. 

The  shadows  fall  upon  their  graves ; 

They  fall  upon  my  heart ; 
And  through  the  twilight  of  this  soul 

Like  dews  the  tears  will  start; 
The  starlight  comes  so  silently 

And  lingers  where  they  rest ; 
So  hope's  revealing  starlight  sinks 

And  shines  within  my  breast. 
They  ask  not  there,  where  yonder  heaven 

Smiles  with  eternal  day, 
Why  Willie  wore  the  loyal  blue, 

Why  Harry  wore  the  gray. 


A  PATRIOTIC  MESSAGE  FOR  MEMORIAL 
DAY 

BY  GENERAL  JAMES  LONGSTREET,  LIEUTENANT-GENERAL 
IN  THE  CONFEDERATE  ARMY  DURING  THE  CIVIL  WAR 

The  broad,  deep  Americanism  which  pulses  through 
the  great  heart  of  the  Republic  to-day  will  grow 
broader  and  deeper  with  the  passing  years.  I  am 
thankful  that  I  have  lived  to  see  this  noble  result  of 
the  war  springing  into  vast  and  virile  life.  The  pas 
sions  of  the  titanic  struggle  will  finally  enter  upon  the 


REUNITED  237 

sleep  of  oblivion,  and  only  its  splendid  accomplishments 
for  the  cause  of  human  freedom  and  a  united  nation, 
stronger  and  richer  in  patriotism  because  of  the  great 
strife,  will  be  remembered. 


REUNITED 

BY  F.  L.  STANTON 

I've  been  thinkin'  of  it  over,  an*  it  'pears  to  me  to 
day 

The  war's  the  biggest  blessin'  that  has  ever  come  our 
way; 

Course,  thar'll  be  some  fightin',  an'  a  few  more 
graves'll  be 

Whar  the  daisies  in  the  medder  look  their  purtiest  at 
me, — 

For  that's  to  be  expected;  but — the  thing  that  makes 
me  feel 

That  the  war's  a  heavenly  blessin'  is  the  wounds  that 
it'll  heal! 

The  old  wounds  that's  been  ranklin'  sence  the  day  that 
Gin'rul  Lee 

Said  we'd  rest  an'  think  it  over  by  that  old-time  apple- 
tree! 

I  see  the  boys  that  fit  us  in  the  Union  coats  of  blue 
On  the  same  groun', — hale  an'  hearty,  an'  a-shakin' 
howdy-do ! 


238  MEMORIAL  DAY 

An'  I  hear  the  ban'  play  "  Dixie,"  an'  I  see  'em  march 

away, 
Till  I  can't  tell  whar  the  blue  is,  an'  I'm  mixed  up  on 

the  gray ! 

The  old  war  tunes  air  ringin',  an'  "  Dixie's  "  on  the 

rise ; 
But  "  Yankee  Doodle  "  follers  'fore  it's  half-way  to  the 

skies ! 
An'   the   old   "  Star   Spangled   Banner "   is   in   ever' 

steeple's  chime, 
An'  I  tell  you,  we're  a-having  of  a  hallelujah  time! 

I'm  glad  I've  lived  to  see  it;  I'm  glad  the  time  is  come 
When,  North  an'  South,  we  answer  to  the  roll-call  of 

the  drum! 
When  thar  ain't  no  line  divides  us,  but  North  an'  South 

we  stan' 
For  jest  one   common   country, — one   freedom-lovin' 

Ian'! 

That's  whar  the  war's  a  blessin',  that's  whar  'pears  like 

I  see 
A  brighter  mornin'  breakin'  on  the  hills  for  you  an* 

me! 
It's  shoulder  now  to  shoulder, — thar  ain't  no  blue  or 

gray,— 
An'  we're  shoutin'  "  Hallelujah,"  an'  we're  happy  on 

the  way! 


REUNITED  239 

HIS  NEW  SUIT 

BY   S.    E.    RISER 

I  remember  well  the  way 
She  looked  up  at  me  that  day 
When  I  first  put  on  the  gray, 

And  said  good-by,  back  there  in  sixty-three. 
She  and  I  were  sweethearts  then, 
And  I  hear  her  voice  again, 

As  she  nestled  up  to  me, 
Saying,  in  her  gentle  way : 
"  Ah,  how  brave  you  look  in  gray, 
And  how  tall  and  handsome,  too, — 
Gray's  the  color,  dear,  for  you !  " 

There's  a  ragged  suit  of  gray 
She  has  long  had  laid  away, — 

There  are  memories  that  cling  around  it,  too ; 
But  the  years  have  come  and  gone, 
And  at  present  I  have  on 

A  suit  of  Uncle  Sam's  beloved  blue. 


When  she  saw  me  yesterday, 

She  wiped  a  tear  away 

For  the  memory  of  the  gray, — 

That  dear,  old,  ragged  suit  of  sixty-three. 
And  sfae  sweetly  spoke  again, — 
Spoke  more   fervently  than  then, — 

As  she  nestled  up  to  me, 


240  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Saying,  in  her  gentle  way : 
"  Ah,  how  brave  you  looked  in  gray ! 
But  you're  braver  still  in  blue, — 
Blue's  the  color,  dear,  for  you !  " 


ENLISTED 
The  Old  Soldier  Speaks 

BY  ELIZA  CALVERT  HALL 

I  fought  under  Lee  and  Stonewall, 

And  I  hated  a  Yankee  like  sin, 
But  gimme  my  uniform,  sergeant, 

I'm  going  to  fight  ag'in. 

I  took  out  my  old  gray  clothes  last  night, 
I  thought  of  the  day  they  was  new, 

And  I  looked  at  the  holes  in  the  left-hand  sleeve 
Where  a  minie  ball  went  through. 

And  I  heard  the  band  play  "  Dixie,"—, 

By  God !     I  heard  every  note, — 
And  I  thought  of  Manassas  and  Shiloh, 

And  a  lump  came  up  in  my  throat. 

And  I  said,  "  Go  back  to  that  old  oak  chest, 
There  ain't  no  more  service  for  you ; 

I'm  goin'  to  fight  on  the  side  that's  right, 
And  I'm  going  to  wear  the  blue !  " 


REUNITED  241 

There's  just  one  thought  in  every  heart, 

One  word  in  every  mouth  ; 
For  things  is  all  so  twisted  around 

That  there  ain't  no  North  nor  South. 

I  never  thought  it  would  come  to  this; 

It's  strange,  but  I  reckon  it's  true; 
For  it's  jest  one  country  and  jest  one  flag, 

And  we're  all  a-wearin'  the  blue ! 


AGAIN  BRETHREN  AND  EQUALS 

BY  JAMES  WILLIS  PATTERSON 

The  true  grandeur  of  passing  historic  events  is  not' 
seen  till  the  noise  and  obstruction  of  the  factitious  andU 
perishable  are  forgotten.  So  the  relative  importance  - 
of  our  late  war  is  not  yet  realized.  Forts  and  trenches 
have  been  obliterated ;  harvests  wave  on  its  battlefields, 
and  the  grass  is  green  above  the  ashes  of  its  victims. 
The  prejudices  and  passions  kindled  by  the  strife  have 
been  laid,  and  we  now  contemplate,  with  serene  and 
undistempered  vision,  the  causes  and  nature  of  the 
sanguinary  conflict.  We  do  not  forget  its  burdens; 
but  we  remember  its  compensations.  The  supremacy 
of  the  federal  government,  within  the  limitations  of  the 
fundamental  law,  is  the  only  secure  and  stable  founda 
tion  of  the  Union,  and  it  must  be  maintained  without 
compromise,  in  peace  as  in  war. 

The  sons  of  the  South  are  a  noble  stock.     We  re- 


242  MEMORIAL  DAY 

spect  the  honesty  of  their  convictions,  and  honor  the 
virility  with  which  they  defended  them.  We  would 
seek  the  cordial  and  conciliatory  course  of  kindred, 
and  would  let  the  "  dead  past  bury  its  dead/'  When 
the  pride  of  exploded  opinions,  and  the  old  war-cries 
of  party,  shall  have  been  silenced  in  the  graves  of  ante 
bellum  politicians,  the  new  generation  will  recognize 
and  maintain  that  sovereignty  of  the  Union  which  is 
essential  to  the  development  and  defense  of  the  high 
est  welfare  of  all  sections.  The  foreshadowed  destiny 
of  the  Nation  can  only  be  imperiled  by  the  loss  of  pop 
ular  intelligence  and  morality.  Common  influences 
and  interests  will  assimilate  our  whole  population  in 
habits  and  feeling,  and  they  will  come  to  cherish  the 
same  objects  of  pride  and  aspiration.  This  will  be  the 
future  cement  of  the  State,  and  the  source  of  its  united 
strength  and  glory.  The  day  is  not  far  distant  when 
the  South,  equally  with  the  North,  will  perceive  that 
they  builded  better  than  they  knew. 

As  an  exhibition  of  physical  prowess,  the  conten 
tion  was  magnificent!  Both  armies  fought,  for  their 
convictions,  with  a  relentlessness  of  valor  unsur 
passed.  The  campaigns  of  the  war,  and  the  subse 
quent  financial  achievements,  have  revealed  to  the 
world  a  strength  and  integrity  worthy  of  the  ancient 
mold  of  men.  The  blood  of  the  North  and  the  South 
has  mingled  in  a  conflict  of  political  principles.  May 
it  nourish  no  root  of  bitterness ;  but  may  there  hence 
forth  be  a  union  of  affections  and  labors  to  advance 
and  perpetuate  the  dignity  and  grandeur  of  a  com 
mon  country.  I  protest,  in  the  name  of  the  dead 
and  the  peace  of  posterity,  that  the  issues  adjudicated 


REUNITED  243 

in  honorable  warfare  shall  not  be  raised  again,  like  in- 
quiet  ghosts,  into  the  arena  of  politics,  to  disturb  the 
peace  and  prosperity  of  the  Nation.  We  honor  the 
valor  and  manliness  of  the  South,  and  will  respect  her 
rights.  We  demand  the  same,  and  no  more.  On  that 
platform  we  can  stand  together,  and  against  the  world. 
The  substantial  interests  of  both  sections  are  one ;  and 
henceforth  their  union  shall  be  one  and  inseparable. 
In  the  fraternal  emulations  of  business  and  the  health 
ful  rivalries  of  honorable  politics,  we  must  labor  for 
the  purity,  power,  and  glory  of  the  Republic.  The  old 
hearthstone  is  broad  enough  for  all,  and  our  household 
gods  are  worthy  of  our  worship.  We  feel  a  special 
tenderness  for  our  native  State;  but  there  is  a  pro- 
founder  love  and  a  more  comprehensive  patriotism 
than  this,  that  throbs  in  the  heart  of  every  loyal  Amer 
ican.  The  State  is  but  a  unit  of  that  organic  and 
august  whole,  our  Country;  in  whose  destiny  are  in 
volved  the  welfare  and  power  of  each  member.  The 
bright  examples  and  splendid  achievements  of  the  Na 
tion  must  remain  ours  to  emulate.  "  The  whole  land 
is  the  sepulcher  of  illustrous  men,"  and  their  hal 
lowed  dust,  not  less  than  their  works,  and  their  fame, 
are  the  common  treasure  of  all. 

The  beacons  which  we  kindle  will  fade,  and  the 
chiseled  rock  will  crumble;  but  the  intellectual  and 
moral  life  evolved  by  the  freedom  of  the  State  will 
transmit  the  lineaments  of  the  national  spirit,  in  im 
perishable  forms  of  thought.  When  the  sculptured 
marbles,  the  gorgeous  temples,  and  the  noblest  monu 
ments  which  a  proud  and  grateful  country  can  raise 
shall  have  completed  their  short-lived  immortality, 


244  MEMORIAL  DAY 

these  will  still  survive, — the  inextinguishable  lights  of 
a  Christian  Commonwealth. 


THE  EAGLE'S  SONG 

BY  RICHARD  MANSFIELD 

The  lioness  whelped,  and  the  sturdy  cub 

Was  seized  by  an  eagle,  and  carried  up, 

And  homed  for  awhile  in  an  eagle's  nest, 

And  slept  for  a  while  on  an  eagle's  breast; 

And  the  eagle  taught  it  the  eagle's  song: 

"  To  be  stanch,  and  valiant,  and  free,  and  strong !  " 

The  lion  whelp  sprang  from  the  eyrie  nest, 
From  the  lofty  crag  where  the  queen  birds  rest ; 
He  fought  the  King  on  the  spreading  plain, 
And  drove  him  back  o'er  the  foaming  main. 
He  held  the  land  as  a  thrifty  chief, 
And  reared  his  cattle,  and  reaped  his  sheaf, 
Nor  sought  the  help  of  a  foreign  hand, 
Yet  welcomed  all  to  his  own  free  land ! 

Two  were  the  sons  that  the  country  bore 
To  the  Northern  lakes  and  the  Southern  shore; 
And  Chivalry  dwelt  with  the  Southern  son, 
And  Industry  lived  with  the  Northern  one. 
Tears  for  the  time  when  they  broke  and  fought! 
Tears  was  the  price  of  the  union  wrought! 
And  the  land  was  red  in  a  sea  of  blood, 
Where  brother  for  brother  had  swelled  the  flood ! 


REUNITED  245 

And  now  that  the  two  are  one  again, 
Behold  on  their  shield  the  word  "  Refrain !  " 
And  the  lion  cubs  twain  sing  the  eagle's  song : 
"  To  be  stanch,  and  valiant,  and  free,  and  strong !  " 
For  the  eagle's  beak,  and  the  lion's  paw, 
And  the  lion's  fangs,  and  the  eagle's  claw, 
And  the  eagle's  swoop,  and  the  lion's  might, 
And  the  lion's  leap,  and  the  eagle's  sight, 
Shall  guard  the  flag  with  the  word  "  Refrain!  " 
Now  that  the  two  are  one  again ! 


THEM  YANKEE  BLANKITS 

BY  W.  SMALL 

Yes,  John,  I  was  down  thar  at  Memphis, 

A-workin*  around  at  the  boats, 
A-heavin'  o'  cotton  with  emph'sis, 

An'  a-loadin'  her  onto  the  floats. 
I  was  comin'  away  from  Ole  Texas, 

Whar  I  went,  you  know,  arter  the  wah- 
'Bout  it  now  I'll  make  no  reflexes, 

But  wait  till  I  git  ter  long  taw. 

Well,  while  I  was  down  thar  the  fever, 

As  yaller  an'  pizen  as  sin, 
Broke  out;  an'  ef  you'll  believe  her, 

Wharever  she  hit  she  struck  in! 
It  didn't  take  long  in  the  hatchin', 

It  jes'  fa'rly  bred  in  the  air, 
Till  a  hosspitel  camp  warn't  a  patchin' 

An'  we'd  plenty  o'  corpses  to  spare. 


246  MEMORIAL  DAY 

I  volunteer'd  then  with  the  Howards, — 

I  thought  thet  my  duty  was  clear, — 
An'  I  didn't  look  back'ards,  but  for'ards, 

An'  went  ter  my  work  'ithout  fear. 
One  day,  howsomever,  she  got  me 

As  quick  as  the  shot  of  a  gun, 
An'  they  toted  me  off  ter  allot  me 

A  bunk  till  my  life-race  was  run. 

The  doctor  and  nurses  they  wrestled, 

But  it  didn't  do  me  any  good; 
An'  the  drugger  he  poundid  an'  pestled, 

But  he  didn't  get  up  the  right  food. 
"  No  blankits  ner  ice  in  the  city !  " — 

I  hear'd  'em  say  that  from  my  bed, — 
An'  some  cried,  "  O  God !  who'll  take  pity 

On  the  dyin'  that  soon  'ill  be  dead  ?  " 

Next  day,  howsomever,  the  doctor 

Come  in  with  a  smile  on  his  brow, 
"  Old  boy,  jest  as  yit  we  hain't  knocked  her," 

Said  he,  "  but  we'll  do  fer  her  now !  " 
Fer,  yer  see,  John,  them  folks  ter  the  Nor'ward 

Hed  hear'd  us  afore  we  call'd  twice, 
An'  they'd  sent  us  a  full  cargo  forward 

Of  them  much  needed  blankits  an'  ice ! 

Well,  brother,  I've  been  mighty  solid 
Agin'  Yankees,  yer  know,  since  the  wah, 

An'  agin*  reconstrucktin'  was  stolid, 
Not  kearin'  fer  Kongriss  ner  law; 


REUNITED  247 

But,  John,  I  got  under  that  kiver, 
That  God-blessed  gift  o'  the  Yanks, 

An'  it  sav'd  me  frum  fordin'  "  the  river," 
An'  I'm  prayin'  'em  oceans  o'  thanks! 

I  tell  yer,  old  boy,  thar's  er  streak  in  us 

Old  Rebels  an'  Yanks  thet  is  warm; 
It's  er  brotherly  love  thet'll  speak  in  us, 

An'  fetch  us  together  in  storm: 
We  may  snarl  about  "  niggers  an'  francheese," 

But  whenever  thar's  sufferin'  afoot, 
The  two  trees'll  unite  in  the  branches 

The  same  as  they  do  at  the  root ! 


THE  WARSHIP  "  DIXIE  " 

BY  FRANK  L.  STANTON 

They've  named  a  cruiser  "  Dixie," — that's  whut  the 

papers  say, — 
An'  I  hears  they're  goin'  to  man  her  with  the  boys 

that  wore  the  gray; 
Good  news !     It  sorter  thrills  me,  an'  makes  me  want 

ter  be 
Whar  the  ban'  is  playin'  "  Dixie,"  an'  the  Dixie  puts 

ter  sea! 

They've  named  a  cruiser  "  Dixie."     An',  fellers,  I'll 

be  boun' 
You're  goin'   ter   see   some   fightin'   when   the  Dixie 

swings  aroun'! 


248  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Ef  any  o'  them  Spanish  ships  shall  strike  her,  East 

or  West, 
Jest  let  the  ban'  play  "  Dixie,"  an'  the  boys'll  do  the 

rest! 

I  want  to  see  that  Dixie t — I  want  ter  take  my  stan' 
On  the  deck  of  her  and  holler:  "Three  cheers   fer 

Dixie  Ian' !  " 
She  means  we're  all  united, — the  war  hurts  healed 

away, 
An'  "  'Way  Down  South  in  Dixie  "  is  national  to-day ! 

I  bet  you  she's  a  good  'un!  I'll  stake  my  last  red 
cent 

Thar  ain't  no  better  timber  in  the  whole  blame  settle 
ment! 

An'  all  their  shiny  battleships  beside  that  ship  air 
tame, 

Fer,  when  it  comes  to  "  Dixie,"  thar's  somethin'  in  a 
name! 

Here's  three  cheers  an'  a  tiger, — as  hearty  as  kin  be; 
An'  let  the  ban'  play  "  Dixie  "  when  the  Dixie  puts  ter 

sea! 
She'll  make  her  way  an'  win  the  day  from  shinin'  East 

to  West- 
Jest  let  the  ban'  play  "  Dixie,"  an'  the  boys'll  do  the 

rest. 


REUNITED  249 

CHICKAMAUGA 

BY    G.    T.    FERRIS 
I863 

From  shuddering  trees  and  painted  leaves 

Strew  redder  dyes  of  crimson  sod; 
And  brave  men  lie  in  ghastly  sheaves, 

As  whirled  there  by  the  wrath  of  God. 
Gray  vapors  hum  with  wings  of  death, 

Whose  roll-call  speeds  its  fierce  alarms; 
And  life  sighs,  "  Here!  "  with  parting  breath, 

Where  bleeding  thousands  ground  their  arms. 
For  brothers  face  each  other's  steel, 
Grim  suitors  in  the  last  appeal. 

1898 

From  laughing  leas  the  bugles  sing, 

More  shrill  than  bird  to  nesting  mate ; 
O'er  tented  slopes  the  war  notes  ring, 

And  time  again  the  tramp  of  fate. 
Bright  oriflamme  of  liberty, 

Our  bannered  blazon  flaunts  the  sky, 
And  hails  the  "  sun-burst "  in  the  sea, 

A  gallant  people's  anguished  cry. 
Now,  brothers,  touch  in  common  weal 
To  right  that  foreign  wrong  with  steel. 


25o  MEMORIAL  DAY 

CHICKAMAUGA— 1898 
From  Baltimore  News 

They  are  camped  on  Chickamauga! 

Once  again  the  white  tents  gleam 
On  that  field  where  vanished  heroes 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  no  dream. 
There  are  shadows  all  about  them 

Of    the   ghostly    troops    to-day, 
But  they  light  the  common  camp-fire, — 

Those  who  wore  the  blue  and  gray. 

Where  the  pines  of  Georgia  tower, 

Where  the  mountains  kiss  the  sky, 
On  their  arms  the  Nation's  warriors 

Wait  to  hear  the  battle-cry, 
Wait  together,  friends  and  brothers, 

And  the  heroes  'neath  their  feet 
Sleep  the  long  and  dreamless  slumber 

Where  the  flowers  are  blooming  sweet 

Sentries,  pause,  yon  shadow  challenge ! 

Rock-ribbed  Thomas  goes  that  way, — 
He  who  fought  the  foe  unyielding 

In  that  awful  battle  fray. 
Yonder  pass  the  shades  of  heroes, 

And  they  follow  where  Bragg  leads 
Through  the  meadows  and  the  river, — 

But  no  ghost  the  sentry  heeds. 


REUNITED  251 

Field  of  fame,  a  patriot  army 

Treads  thy  sacred  sod  to-day ! 
And  they'll  face  a  common  foeman, 

Those  who  wore  the  blue  and  gray, 
And  they'll  fight  for  common  country, 

And  they'll  charge  to  victory 
'Neath  the  folds  of  one  brave  banner, — 

Starry  banner  of  the  free ! 

They  are  camped  off  Chickamauga, 

Where  the  green  tents  of  the  dead 
Turn  the  soil  into  a  glory 

Where  a  Nation's  heart  once  bled ; 
But  they're  clasping  hands  together 

On  this  storied  field  of  strife, — 
Brothers  brave  who  meet  to  battle 

In  the  freedom-war  of  life ! 


ALL  UNDER  THE  SAME  BANNER  NOW 

BY  LAWRENCE  SULLIVAN  ROSS 

From  Address  Delivered  July  4,  1887,  at  Austin, 
Tex.,  Before  the  Surviving  Veterans  of  Hood's 
Texas  Brigade 

But  few  of  you  are  here  to-day.  The  great  majority 
of  your  old  comrades  fill  unknown  graves,  with  naught 
to  mark  their  silent  resting-places ;  but  their  names  are 
embalmed  in  as  many  loving  hearts  as  ever  entwined 


252  MEMORIAL  DAY 

around  living,  or  lingered  around  the  graves  of  de 
ceased,  patriots.  And  to-day,  as  our  memory  recalls 
face  after  face  of  this  vast  spectral  army,  of  those 
who  have  preceded  us  in  the  line  of  march  to  the 
silent  shores,  we  shed  the  tear  of  affectionate  remem 
brance,  as  echo  gives  praises  to  their  memory  and 
honor  to  their  dust.  Throughout  the  broad  area  of 
the  world  there  never  was  a  field  more  rich  in  facts 
which  constitute  the  fiber  of  an  earnest,  active  patri 
otism,  than  that  found  in  the  Southern  struggle.  And 
the  lofty  admiration  in  which  your  manhood,  valor,  and 
endurance,  as  well  as  the  sublime  resignation  with 
which  you  accepted  disappointment  after  great  hopes 
and  greater  efforts,  are  held  all  over  the  world,  shows 
how  much  the  world  yet  values  true  and  brave  men, 
who  could  shake  off  troubles  as  great  as  these  were, 
and  by  heroic  efforts,  in  a  time  of  peace,  make  them, 
to  an  impoverished  country,  but  as  flaxen  withes  bound 
around  a  slumbering  giant.  What  wonder  the  world 
has  stood  amazed  at  the  persistent  vitality  of  our  peo 
ple?  for,  under  your  admirable  conduct,  every  barrier 
to  the  flow  of  capital,  or  check  to  the  development  of 
our  unbounded  resources,  was  removed. 

We  see  here  to-day  a  free  and  independent  mingling 
of  men  from  every  section  of  our  broad  domain,  all 
prejudices  of  the  past  forgotten;  and  while  our  State 
has  been  fortunate  in  acquiring  thousands  of  those 
who  fought  against  us,  and  who  are  an  honor  both  to 
the  States  which  gave  them  birth,  and  ours  which  they 
have  made  their  home,  it  matters  not  whence  they 
come ;  they  can  exult  in  the  reflection  that  our  Country 
is  the  same,  and  they  find  floating  here  the  same  ban- 


REUNITED  253 

ner  that  waved  above  them  there,  with  its  broad  folds 
unrent,  and  its  bright  stars  unobscured;  and  in  its 
defense,  if  needs  be,  the  swords  of  those  old  Confed 
erates,  so  recently  sheathed,  would  leap  forth  with 
equal  alacrity  with  those  of  the  North. 

No  nobler  emotion  can  fill  the  breast  of  any  man 
than  that  which  prompts  him  to  utter  honest  praise 
of  an  adversary  whose  convictions  and  opinions  are 
at  war  with  his  own ;  and  where  is  there  a  Confederate 
soldier  in  our  land  who  has  not  felt  a  thrill  of  gener 
ous  admiration  and  applause  for  the  pre-eminent  hero 
ism  of  the  gallant  Federal  admiral,  who  lashed  him 
self  to  the  mainmast,  while  the  tattered  sails  and 
frayed  cordage  of  his  vessel  were  being  shot  away  by 
piecemeal,  above  his  head,  and  slowly  but  surely  picked 
his  way  through  sunken  reefs  of  torpedoes,  whose  de 
structive  powers  consigned  many  of  his  luckless  com 
rades  to  watery  graves?  The  fame  of  such  men  as 
Farragut,  Stanley,  Hood,  and  Lee,  and  the  hundreds 
of  private  soldiers  who  were  the  true  heroes  of  the 
war,  belongs  to  no  time  or  section,  but  is  the  common 
property  of  mankind.  They  were  all  cast  in  the  same 
grand  mold  of  self-sacrificing  patriotism,  and  I  intend 
to  teach  my  children  to  revere  their  names  as  long 
as  the  love  of  country  is  respected  as  a  noble  sentiment 
in  the  human  breast. 

It  is  a  remarkable  fact  that  those  who  bore  the 
brunt  of  the  battle  were  the  first  to  forget  old  ani 
mosities  and  consign  to  oblivion  obsolete  issues.  They 
saw  that  nothing  but  sorrow  and  shame,  and  the  loss 
of  the  respect  of  the  world,  was  to  be  gained  by  per 
petuating  the  bitterness  of  past  strife;  and,  impelled  by 


254  MEMORIAL  DAY 

a  spirit  of  patriotism,  they  were  willing,  by  all  pos 
sible  methods,  to  create  and  give  utterance  to  a  public 
sentiment  which  would  best  conserve  our  common  in 
stitutions  and  restore  that  fraternal  concord  in  which 
the  war  of  the  Revolution  left  us,  and  the  Federal 
Constitution  found  us.  And  I  emphasize  the  declara 
tion  that,  in  most  instances,  those  whose  hatred  has 
remained  implacable,  through  all  these  years  of  peace, 
are  men  who  held  high  carnival  in  the  rear,  and,  after 
all  danger  had  passed,  emerged  from  their  hiding- 
places,  filled  with  ferocious  zeal  and  courage,  blind  to 
every  principle  of  wise  statesmanship,  to  make  amends 
for  lack  of  deeds  of  valor  by  pressing  to  their  lips  the 
sweet  cup  of  revenge,  for  whose  intoxicating  contents 
our  country  has  already  paid  a  price  that  would  have 
purchased  the  goblet  of  the  Egyptian  queen. 


ONE  BENEATH  OLD  GLORY 

ANONYMOUS 

Don't  you  hear  the  tramp  of  soldiers? 

Don't  you  hear  the  bugles  play? 
Don't  you  see  the  muskets  flashing 

In  the  sunlight  far  away? 
Don't  you  feel  the  ground  all  trembling 

'Neath  the  tread  of  many  feet  ? 
They  are  coming,  tens  of  thousands, 

To  the  army  and  the  fleet. 


REUNITED  255 

They  are  Yankees,  they  are  Johnnies, 

They're  for  North  and  South  no  more; 
They  arc  one,  and  glad  to  follow 

When  Old  Glory  goes  before. 
From  Atlantic  to  Pacific, 

From  the  Pine  Tree  to  Lone  Star, 
They  are  gath'ring  'round  Old  Glory, 

And  they're  marching  to  the  war. 

Don't  you  see  the  harbors  guarded 

By  those  bristling  dogs  of  war  ? 
Don't  you  hear  them  growling,  barking, 

At  the  fleet  beyond  the  bar? 
Don't  you  hear  the  Jack  Tars  cheering, 

Brave  as  sailor  lads  can  be? 
Don't  you  see  the  water  boiling 

Where  the  squadron  put  to  sea? 

They  are  Yankees,  they  are  Johnnies, 

They're  for  North  and  South  no  more; 
They  are  one,  and  glad  to  follow 

When  Old  Glory  goes  before. 
From  Atlantic  to  Pacific, 

From  the  Pine  Tree  to  Lone  Star, 
They  have  gathered  'round  Old  Glory, 

And  they're  sailing  to  the  war. 

Don't  you  hear  the  horses  prancing? 

Don't  you  hear  the  sabers  clash? 
Don't  you  hear  the  cannons  roaring? 

Don't  you  hear  the  muskets  crash? 


256  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Don't  you  smell  the  smoke  of  battle? 

Oh,  you'll  wish  that  you  had  gone, 
When  you  hear  the  shouts  and  cheering 

For  the  boys  who  whipped  the  Don! 

There'll  be  Yankees,  there'll  be  Johnnies, 

There'll  be  North  and  South  no  more, 
When  the  boys  come  marching  homeward 

With  Old  Glory  borne  before. 
From  Atlantic  to  Pacific, 

From  the  Pine  Tree  to  Lone  Star, 
They'll  be  one  beneath  Old  Glory 

After  coming  from  the  war. 


AMERICA  SURVIVES  THE  ORDEAL  OF  CON 
FLICTING  SYSTEMS 

BY  HENRY  B.  CARRINGTON 

On  the  fourth  of  July,  1888,  the  battlefield  of  Get 
tysburg  was  made  memorial  of  the  prediction  uttered 
by  President  Lincoln  at  its  dedication  as  a  national 
cemetery  in  1864,  that  "  The  nation  shall,  under  God, 
have  a  new  birth  of  power  " ;  and  that  "  government 
of  the  people,  by  the  people,  for  the  people,  shall  not 
perish  from  the  earth." 

The  contest  of  1861-65  removed  from  the  national 
life  that  serious  element  of  danger  which  the  fathers 
left  for  their  posterity  to  settle.  The  rights  of  all 
sections  rested  upon  one  charter.  The  moral  law  of 


REUNITED  257 

abstract  right  did  not  harmonize  with  the  possessory 
rights  of  a  well-accepted  legal  status,  and  only  a  char 
ity  and  wisdom  more  than  human  could  bring  a  full 
accord  without  the  crucial  test  of  arms.  The  more 
powerful  North  bent  its  vast  energies  of  numbers  and 
wealth  to  preserve  the  Union  of  the  States.  The 
South,  inferior  in  numbers  and  resources,  affirmed  with 
equal  spirit  its  right  of  withdrawal,  unless  the  legal 
tolerations  of  the  Constitution  should  have  their  full 
est  effect.  The  issue  joined,  satisfied  all  interests, 
after  marvelous  sacrifice;  and  the  Union  is  clothed 
with  fresh  strength  and  more  permanent  beauty.  Al 
ready  a  sense  of  relief  from  the  estrangement  of 
brethren  which  harassed  the  original  colonies,  and 
worried  the  nation  to  the  verge  of  ruin,  inspires  poets 
and  orators  with  enlarged  faith  in  the  national  future. 
Already  the  republic,  purified  by  fire  and  by  blood, 
looks  backward,  to  honor  with  fresh  enthusiasm  each 
recurring  anniversary  of  the  nation's  birth,  and  then, 
in  the  glory  of  a  second  birth,  turns  forward,  to  con 
centrate  its  vision  as  through  the  perspective  glass  of 
Bunyan,  upon  the  development  of  an  "  indestructible 
Union  of  indestructible  States." 

The  ordeal  of  arms  came  to  an  end !  The  lingering 
ordeal  of  cooling  passion  has  entered  upon  a  fraternal 
solution.  Impartial  history  softens  the  hardness  of 
old-time  antagonisms,  and  magnifies  the  patriotism  of 
a  people  which  can  conquer  self  to  bless  the  many. 
Mr.  Curtis,  the  orator  of  Gettysburg,  only  voiced  the 
sentiment  of  all  "  good-willing  men  on  earth  "  as  he 
said,  "  If  there  be  joy  in  heaven  this  day,  it  is  in  the 
heart  of  Abraham  Lincoln  as  he  looks  down  upon  the 


258  MEMORIAL  DAY 

field  of  Gettysburg."  To  General  Gordon,  the  very 
ground  seemed  holy,  as  if  the  union  of  the  Blue  and 
the  Gray,  in  dust,  only  typified  a  spiritual  union  above, 
and  their  benediction  on  the  survivors  who  gain  a  more 
enduring  fellowship  through  their  mingled  blood. 
"  No  conflict  now !  "  was  the  breathing  of  General 
Devens  when  he  welcomed  the  visiting  soldiers  of  the 
South  at  the  Bunker  Hill  celebration  in  Charlestown, 
Massachusetts,  June  17,  1875.  "  The  moral  sentiment 
of  the  nineteenth  century  has  ended  slavery!"  was 
the  great  utterance  of  Justice  Lamar,  as  he  unveiled 
the  statue  of  John  C.  Calhoun,  at  Charleston,  South 
Carolina,  April  26,  1888.  The  heart-longing  of  Alex 
ander  H.  Stephens  as  he  watched  the  unveiling  of  Car 
penter's  picture  of  the  Signing  of  the  Emancipation 
Proclamation,  "  Separate  as  billows,  but  one  as  the 
sea !  "  finds  responsive  prayer  in  every  loyal  American 
soul.  "  Again  brethren  and  equals !  "  rings  out,  in 
the  voice  of  ex-Senator  Patterson,  while  he  assists  to 
dedicate  a  monument  to  the  sons  of  New  Hampshire 
who  fell  in  the  great  contest.  "  Under  the  same  ban 
ner  now,  its  folds  unrent,  and  its  bright  stars  unob- 
scured,"  is  the  sentiment  through  which  Governor 
Ross,  of  Texas,  calls  upon  the  veterans  of  Hood's 
Texas  Brigade,  July  4,  1887,  to  welcome  their  brethren 
of  the  North  into  a  full  identity  of  interest,  State  and 
nation.  "  Let  us  rejoice  together!  "  is  the  jubilant  re 
frain  of  General  George  A.  Sheridan  in  his  apotheosis 
to  "  Immortal  Heroes,"  when,  with  outstretched  arm, 
he  swings  out  the  banner  of  our  love,  that  all  shall 
see  in  its  clustered  constellation  the  full  roster  of  all 
the  planets  present. 


REUNITED  259 

Oliver  Perry  Morton,  in  his  last  speech  made  in  his 
own  State,  Indiana,  on  Decoration  Day,  1877,  thus 
spoke : 

We  will  let  by-gones  be  by-gones.  We  cannot  forget  the 
past,  we  ought  not  to  forget  it.  True  reconciliation  does 
not  require  us  to  forget  these  dead,  does  not  require  us  to 
forget  the  living  soldier,  and  to  cease  to  do  him  justice. 
We  say  to  those  who  were  on  the  other  side  of  that  great 
contest,  that  while  we  shall  forever  cherish  the  lessons  that 
were  taught  us  by  that  great  struggle,  all  we  ask  of  them 
is,  that  they  shall  hereafter  stand  upon  these  principles :  the 
great  doctrine  of  equal  liberty,  and  of  equal  rights  to  all, 
and  equal  protection  to  all,  and,  let  us  go  forward,  hand 
in  hand,  and  as  Americans  and  brethren,  through  all  the 
future  pages  of  our  country's  history. 

In  like  spirit,  William  H.  Fleming,  on  a  Memorial 
Day,  at  Augusta,  Georgia,  April  28,  1885,  thus  spoke : 

Without  abating  one  jot  or  tittle  of  loyal  devotion  to  the 
memory  of  our  Confederate  dead,  we  can  here,  in  the  presence 
of  their  graves,  turn  our  eye  to  heaven  and  exclaim,  Thank 
God!  slavery,  that  material  curse  and  moral  incubus,  has 
been  lifted  from  our  sky!  Yes!  even  though  it  could  spend 
its  fury  only  in  the  lightning  and  thunder  of  war.  No  State 
will  ever  again  resort  to  secession  from  the  Union,  as  a 
remedy  for  wrongs  present  or  prospective.  Mr.  Webster's 
prayer  is  answered;  for  the  sun  will  never  again  shine  upon 
"  the  broken  and  dishonored  fragments  of  a  once  glorious 
Union;  upon  States  discordant,  dissevered,  belligerent."  The 
motto  upon  the  ensign  of  the  republic,  now  full  high  and 
advanced,  is,  by  universal  consent,  "  Liberty  and  Union,  now 
and  forever,  one  and  inseparable." 

The  dream  of  the  Massachusetts  poet,  Duganne,  had 
its  marvelous  realization;  but  the  soldiers  and  states- 


2<5o  MEMORIAL  DAY 

men  of  all  sections  now  sympathize  with  all  bereaved 
ones,  and  recognize  the  valor  of  all  who  passed  under 
the  flail  of  discipline  which  his  enthusiasm  invoked. 


THE  HIGH  TIDE  AT  GETTYSBURG 

BY   WILL   HENRY  THOMPSON 

A  cloud  possessed  the  hollow  field, 

The  gathering  battle's  smoky  shield. 

Athwart  the  gloom  the  lightning  flashed, 

And  through  the  cloud  some  horsemen  dashed, 

And  from  the  heights  the  thunder  pealed. 

Then  at  the  brief  command  of  Lee 
Moved  out  that  matchless  infantry, 
With  Pickett  leading  grandly  down, 
To  rush  against  the  roaring  crown 
Of  those  dread  heights  of  destiny. 

Far  heard  above  the  angry  guns 

A  cry  across  the  tumult  runs, — 

The  voice  that  rang  through   Shiloh's   woods 

And  Chickamauga's  solitudes, 

The  fierce  South  cheering  on  her  sons ! 

Ah,  how  the  withering  tempest  blew 
Against  the  front  of  Pettigrew ! 
A  Khamsin  wind  that  scorched  and  singed 
Like  that  infernal  flame  that  fringed 
The  British  squares  at  Waterloo! 


REUNITED  261 

A  thousand  fell  where  Kemper  led ; 
A  thousand  died  where  Garnett  bled: 
In  blinding  flame  and  strangling  smoke 
The  remnant  through  the  batteries  broke 
And  crossed  the  works  with  Armistead. 

"  Once  more  in  Glory's  van  with  me !  " 
Virginia  cried  to  Tennessee; 
"  We  two  together,  come  what  may, 
Shall  stand  upon  these  works  to-day !  " 
(The  reddest  day  in  history.) 

Brave  Tennessee!     In  reckless  way 
Virginia  heard  her  comrade  say: 
"Close  round  this  rent  and  riddled  rag!" 
What  time  she  set  her  battle-flag 
Amid  the  guns  of  Doubleday. 

But  who  shall  break  the  guards  that  wait 
Before  the  awful  face  of  Fate? 
The  tattered  standards  of  the  South 
Were  shriveled  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 
And  all  her  hopes  were  desolate. 

In  vain  the  Tennesseean  set 
His  breast  against  the  bayonet ! 
In  vain  Virginia  charged  and  raged, 
A  tigress  in  her  wrath  uncaged, 
Till  all  the  hill  was  red  and  wet ! 

Above  the  bayonets,  mixed  and  crossed, 
Men  saw  a  gray,  gigantic  ghost 


262  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Receding  through  the  battle-cloud, 
And  heard  across  the  tempest  loud 
The  death-cry  of  a  nation  lost ! 

The  brave  went  down !     Without  disgrace 
They  leaped  to  Ruin's  red  embrace. 
They  only  heard  Fame's  thunders  wake, 
And  saw  the  dazzling  sun-burst  break 
In  smiles  on  Glory's  bloody  face ! 

They  fell,  who  lifted  up  a  hand 
And  bade  the  sun  in  heaven  to  stand ! 
They  smote  and  fell,  who  set  the  bars 
Against  the  progress  of  the  stars, 
And  stayed  the  march  of  Motherland ! 

They  stood,  who  saw  the  future  come 
On  through  the  fight's  delirium! 
They  smote  and  stood,  who  held  the  hope 
Of  nations  on  that  slippery  slope 
Amid  the  cheers  of  Christendom. 

God  lives !     He  forged  the  iron  will 
That  clutched  and  held  that  trembling  hill. 
God  lives  and  reigns !     He  built  and  lent 
The  heights  for  Freedom's  battlement 
Where  floats  her  flag  in  triumph  still ! 

Fold  up  the  banners !     Smelt  the  guns ! 
Love  rules.     Her  gentler  purpose  runs. 
A  mighty  mother  turns  in  tears 
The  pages  of  her  battle  years, 
Lamenting  all  her  fallen  sons! 


REUNITED  263 


THE  NEW  MEMORIAL  DAY 

BY  ALBERT  BIGELOW  PAINE 

Oh,  the  roses  we  plucked  for  the  blue 
And  the  lilies  we  twined  for  the  gray, 

We  have  bound  in  a  wreath, 

And  in  silence  beneath 

Slumber  our  heroes  to-day. 

Over  the  new-turned  sod 

The  sons  of  our  fathers  stand, 

And  the  fierce  old  fight 

Slips  out  of  sight 

In  the  clasp  of  a  brother's  hand. 

For  the  old  blood  left  a  stain 
That  the  new  has  washed  away, 

And  the  sons  of  those 

That  have  faced  as  foes 
Are  marching  together  to-day. 

Oh,  the  blood  that  our  fathers  gave! 

Oh,  the  tide  of  our  mothers'  tears ! 
And  the  flow  of  red, 
And  the  tears  they  shed, 

Embittered  a  sea  of  years. 

But  the  roses  we  plucked  for  the  blue, 
And  the  lilies  we  twined  for  the  gray, 


264  MEMORIAL  DAY 

We  have  bound  in  a  wreath, 
And  in  glory  beneath 

Slumber  our  heroes  to-day. 


MEMORIAL  DAY  1889 

BY  SAMUEL  ELLSWORTH   KISER 


Twine  laurels  to  lay  o'er  the  Blue  and  the  Gray,  spread 
wreaths  where  our  heroes  rest ; 

Let  the  song  of  the  North  echo  back  from  the  South 
for  the  love  that  is  truest  and  best ! 

Twin  wreaths  for  the  tombs  of  our  Grant  and  our 
Lee,  one  anthem  for  Jackson  and  Meade. 

And  the  flag  above  you  is  the  banner  for  me — one  peo 
ple  in  name  and  in  deed! 


ii 


Clasp  hands  o'er  the  graves  where  our  laureled  ones  lie 

— clasp  hands  o'er  the  Gray  and  the  Blue ; 
To-day  we  are  brothers  and  bound  by  a  tie  that  the 

years  shall  but  serve  to  renew ; 
By  the  side  of  the  Northman  who  peacefully  sleeps 

where  tropical  odors  are  shed, 
A  son  of  the  South  his  companionship  keeps — one  flag 

o'er  the  two  heroes  spread. 


REUNITED  265 

in 

Weave  tokens  of  love  for  the  heroes  in  blue,  weave 
wreaths  for  the  heroes  in  gray ; 

Clasp  brotherly  hands  o'er  the  graves  that  are  new — 
for  the  love  that  is  ours  to-day  ; 

A  trinity  given  to  bless,  to  unite — three  glorious  rec 
ords  to  keep, 

And  a  kinship  that  never  a  grievance  shall  sever  re 
newed  where  the  brave  are  asleep! 

IV 

Spread  flowers  to-day  o'er  the  Blue  and  the  Gray — 

spread  wreaths  where  our  heroes  rest; 
Let  the  song  of  the  North  echo  back  from  the  South 

for  the  love  that  is  truest  and  best! 
Twin  wreaths  for  the  tombs  of  our  Grant  and  our  Lee, 

one  hymn  for  your  father  and  mine ! 
Oh,  the  flag  you  adore  is  the  banner  for  me,  and  its 

folds  our  dead  brothers  entwine. 


LET  US  REJOICE  TOGETHER 

BY  GEORGE  AUGUSTUS  SHERIDAN 

More  than  twenty  years  have  passed  since  the  last 
great  battle  in  our  civil  contest  was  fought.  The 
mighty  armies  of  the  nation  have  long  since  folded 
their  torn  banners,  stacked  their  muskets,  and  doffed 
their  uniforms.  The  bugles  that  of  old  sounded  the 


266  MEMORIAL  DAY 

charge,  and  the  drums  that  beat  to  battle,  are  now 
silent.  The  blades  that  flashed,  and  the  bayonets  that 
gleamed  above  their  surging  columns,  no  longer  catch 
the  sunlight.  Grass  grows  in  the  fields  whereon  they 
struggled,  and  the  rustle  of  ripened  grain  is  heard 
where,  but  a  while  ago,  the  ring  of  steel  made  music 
that  set  men's  blood  aflame. 

What  was  our  war  ?  How  should  it  be  looked  upon  ? 
It  was  not  the  result  of  men's  ambition,  North  or 
South.  It  was  not  a  contest  for  territory.  It  could 
not  have  been  prevented,  although  it  might  have  been 
postponed,  by  the  action  of  any  political  party.  Our 
war  was  simply  fighting  out,  upon  a  new  field,  and 
under  more  enlightened  auspices,  a  contest  that  had 
been  waged  for  centuries  among  the  people  from 
whose  loins  we  sprung.  It  was  the  clash  of  two- 
civilizations,  so  antagonistic  in  their  conceptions,  so 
antipodal  in  their  means  and  methods  of  development, 
as  to  make  impossible  harmony  of  action,  or  peaceful 
growth  side  by  side.  The  North  and  South  were  in 
direct  opposition  as  to  the  best  methods  of  governing 
and  perpetuating  the  heritage  left  them  by  their 
fathers.  Their  conceptions  were  so  radically  different, 
that  peaceful  measures  could  not  adjust  or  reconcile 
them.  One  or  the  other  must  yield. 

War  came!  The  land  that  had  known  but  peace 
echoed  to  the  tread  of  armed  men !  Up  from  the  land 
of  the  orange  and  the  myrtle  came  mighty  hosts,  har 
nessed  for  conflict,  chanting  songs  of  battle,  eager  for 
the  fight,  sweeping  with  as  fiery  courage  and  as  daunt 
less  bearing  to  the  onset  as  of  old  the  men  from  out 
whose  loins  they  sprung  charged  Saracenic  hosts,  or 


REUNITED  267 

closed  in  deadly  grapple  with  the  knightly  sons  of 
France.  From  the  land  of  the  fir  and  the  pine,  down 
from  its  mountains  and  out  from  its  valleys,  glittering 
with  steel,  and  bright  with  countless  banners,  steady 
and  strong,  the  men  of  the  North  marched  to  the 
conflict. 

A  hush  as  of  death  filled  the  land,  as  the  mighty 
hosts  confronted  each  other.  An  instant, — and  the 
heavens  seemed  rent  asunder,  and  the  solid  globe  to 
reel.  North  and  South  had  met  in  the  shock  of  war! 
Blood  deluged  the  land;  the  ear  of  pity  deaf;  the 
springs  of  love  dried  up;  the  throb  of  mighty  guns; 
the  gleam  of  myriad  blades ;  the  savage  shouts  of  men 
grappling  each  other  in  relentless  clutch;  Death,  pale, 
pitiless,  tireless,  thrusting  his  awful  sickle  into  harvest 
fields,  where  the  grain  was  human  life;  bells  from 
every  steeple  in  the  land  tolling  out  their  solemn  notes 
of  sorrow  for  the  slain;  fathers,  mothers,  wives,  and 
little  ones  smiting  their  palms  in  agony  together,  as 
they  looked  upon  the  features  of  their  loved  ones  mar 
bled  in  the  eternal  sleep! 

For  four  long  bitter  years  the  mighty  tide  of  war 
rolled  through  the  land,  engulfing  in  its  crimson  flood 
the  best  and  bravest  of  the  North  and  South,  bearing 
their  souls  outwards,  with  resistless  sweep,  to  that 
dread  sea  whose  shores,  to  human  eyes,  are  viewless, 
whose  somber  waves  are  ever  chanting  solemn  requiems 
for  the  dead !  In  this  wild  storm  of  war  the  banners 
of  the  South  went  down.  The  bells  of  liberty  through 
all  the  land  rang  out  a  joyous  peal  of  welcome,  and 
guns  from  fortress,  field,  and  citadel  thundered  greet 
ing  to  the  hour  that  proclaimed  America  one  and  in- 


268  MEMORIAL  DAY 

divisible.  From  southern  gulf  to  northern  lakes,  from 
northern  lakes  to  Atlantic  and  Pacific  coasts,  we  were 
ONE.  The  Mississippi  flowed  not  along  the  borders 
of  a  dozen  empires ;  the  blue  waters  fo  the  lakes  beat 
not  upon  the  shores  of  rival  governments;  the  moun 
tains  of  the  land  frowned  not  down  upon  hostile  ter 
ritories;  the  ocean  bore  not  upon  its  bosom  the  fleets 
of  contending  States;  but  over  all  the  land  a  single 
flag  threw  out  its  folds,  symbol  of  victory,  index  of  a 
reunited  people. 

We  recall  the  glories  and  the  triumphs  of  the  Union, 
not  for  the  purpose  of  humiliating  the  gallant  souls 
that  battled  against  us.  In  the  providence  of  God,  the 
struggle  they  made  to  rend  us  asunder  has  but  strength 
ened  the  bonds  of  our  union.  Those  who  fought 
against  us  are  now  of  us,  and  enjoy  the  countless 
blessings  that  have  come  from  the  triumph  of  the 
Union,  and  with  us  they  should  bow  their  heads  and 
reverently  acknowledge  that  above  all  the  desires  of 
men  move  the  majestic  laws  of  God,  evolving,  alike 
from  victory  or  defeat  of  nations,  substantial  good  for 
all  His  children. 


VI 

SELECTIONS 


THE  BRIGADE  COMMANDER 

BY  J.  W.  DE  FORREST 

The  Colonel  was  the  idol  of  his  bragging  old  regi 
ment  and  of  the  bragging  brigade  which  for  the  last 
six  months  he  had  commanded. 

He  was  the  idol,  not  because  he  was  good  and 
gracious,  not  because  he  spared  his  soldiers  or  treated 
them  as  fellow-citizens,  but  because  he  had  led  them 
to  victory  and  made  them  famous.  If  a  man  will  win 
battles  and  give  his  brigade  a  right  to  brag  loudly  of 
its  doings,  he  may  have  its  admiration,  and  even  its 
enthusiastic  devotion,  though  he  be  as  pitiless  and  as 
wicked  as  Lucifer. 

"  It's  nothin'  to  me  what  the  Currnell  is  in  prrivit, 
so  long  as  he  shows  us  hpw  to  whack  the  rrebs,"  said 
Major  Gahogan,  commandant  of  the  "  Old  Tenth." 
"  Moses  saw  God  in  the  burrnin'  bussh,  an'  bowed 
down  to  it,  an'  worrshipt  it.  It  wasn't  the  bussh  he 
worrshipt;  it  was  his  God  that  was  in  it.  An'  I 
worrship  this  villin  of  a  Currnell  (if  he  is  a  villin) 
because  he's  almighty  and  gives  us  the  vict'ry.  He's 
nothin'  but  a  human  burrnin'  bussh,  perhaps,  but  he's 
got  the  god  of  war  in  um.  Adjetant  Wallis,  it's  a — 
long  time  between  dhrinks,  as  I  think  ye  was  sayin', 
an'  with  rayson.  See  if  ye  can't  condiscate  a  canteen 
of  whiskee  somewhere  in  the  camp.  Bedad,  if  I  can't 

271 


272  MEMORIAL  DAY 

buy  it  I'll  stale  it.  We're  goin'  to  fight  to-morry,  an' 
it  may  be  it's  the  last  chance  we'll  have  for  a  dhrink, 
unless  there's  more  lik'r  now  in  the  other  worrld  than 
Dives  got." 

The  brigade  was  bivouacked  in  some  invisible  region, 
amid  the  damp,  misty  darkness  of  a  September  night. 
The  men  lay  in  their  ranks,  each  with  his  feet  to  the 
front  and  his  head  rearward,  each  covered  by  his 
overcoat  and  pillowed  upon  his  haversack,  each  with 
his  loaded  rifle  nestled  close  beside  him.  Asleep  as 
they  were,  or  dropping  placidly  into  slumber,  they 
were  ready  to  start  in  order  to  their  feet  and  pour 
out  the  red  light  and  harsh  roar  of  combat.  There 
were  two  lines  of  battle,  each  of  three  regiments  of  in 
fantry,  the  first  some  two  hundred  yards  in  advance 
of  the  second.  In  the  space  between  them  lay  two 
four-gun  batteries,  one  of  them  brass  twelve-pounder 
"  Napoleons,"  and  the  other  rifled  Parrotts.  To  the 
rear  of  the  infantry  were  the  recumbent  troopers  and 
picketed  horses  of  a  regiment  of  cavalry.  All  around, 
in  the  far,  black  distance,  invisible  and  inaudible,  paced 
or  watched  stealthily  the  sentinels  of  the  grand  guards. 

There  was  not  a  fire,  nor  a  torch,  nor  a  star-beam  in 
the  whole  bivouac  to  guide  the  feet  of  Adjutant  Wal- 
lis  in  his  pilgrimage  after  whisky.  The  orders  from 
brigade  headquarters  had  been  strict  against  illumina 
tions,  for  the  Confederates  were  near  at  hand  in 
force,  and  a  surprise  was  purposed  as  well  as  feared. 
A  tired  and  sleepy  youngster,  almost  dropping  with 
the  heavy  somnolence  of  wearied  adolescence,  he  stum 
bled  on  through  the  trials  of  an  undiscernible  and  un 
familiar  footing,  lifting  his  heavy  riding  boots  slug- 


SELECTIONS  273 

gishly  over  imaginary  obstacles,  and  fearing  the  while 
lest  his  toil  were  labor  misspent.  It  was  a  dry  camp, 
he  felt  dolefully  certain,  or  there  would  have  been 
more  noise  in  it.  He  fell  over  a  sleeping  Sergeant, 
and  said  to  him  hastily,  "  Steady,  man — a  friend !  "  as 
the  half-roused  soldier  clutched  his  rifle.  Then  he 
found  a  Lieutenant,  and  shook  him  in  vain ;  further  on 
a  Captain,  and  exchanged  saddening  murmurs  with 
him;  further  still  a  camp-follower  of  African  extrac 
tion,  and  blasphemed  him. 

"  It's  a  God-forsaken  camp,  and  there  isn't  a  horn 
in  it,"  said  Adjutant  Wallis  to  himself  as  he  pursued 
his  groping  journey.  "  Bet  you  I  don't  find  the  first 
drop,"  he  continued,  for  he  was  a  betting  boy,  and 
frequently  argued  by  wagers,  even  with  himself.  "  Bet 
you  two  to  one  I  don't.  Bet  you  three  to  one — ten  to 
one." 

Then  he  saw,  an  indefinite  distance  beyond  him, 
burning  like  red-hot  iron  through  the  darkness,  a  lit 
tle  scarlet  or  crimson  gleam,  as  of  a  lighted  cigar. 

"That's  Old  Crumps,  of  the  Bloody  Fourteenth," 
he  thought.  "  I've  raided  into  his  happy  sleeping- 
grounds.  I'll  draw  on  him." 

But  Old  Crumps,  otherwise  Colonel  Lafayette  Gil- 
dersleeve,  had  no  rations — that  is,  no  whisky. 

"  How  do  you  suppose  an  officer  is  to  have  a  drink, 
Lieutenant?"  he  grumbled. 

"  Don't  you  know  that  our  would-be  Brigadier  sent 
all  the  commissary  to  the  rear  day  before  yesterday? 
A  canteenful  can't  last  two  days.  Mine  went  empty 
about  five  minutes  ago." 

"  Oh,  thunder !  "  groaned  Wallis,  saddened  by  that 


274  MEMORIAL  DAY 

saddest  of  all  thoughts ;  "  too  late !  Well,  least 
said  soonest  mended.  I  must  wobble  back  to  my 
Major." 

"  He'll  send  you  off  to  some  other  camp  as  dry  as 
this  one.  Wait  ten  minutes,  and  he'll  be  asleep.  Lie 
down  on  my  blanket  and  light  your  pipe.  I  want  to 
talk  to  you  about  official  business — about  our  would-be 
Brigadier." 

"  Oh,  your  turn  will  come  some  day,"  mumbled 
Wallis,  remembering  Gildersleeve's  jealousy  of  the 
brigade  commander, — a  jealousy  which  only  gave 
tongue  when  aroused  by  '  commissary.'  If  you  do 
as  well  as  usual  to-morrow  you  can  have  your  own 
brigade." 

"  I  suppose  you  think  we  are  all  going  to  do  well 
to-morrow,"  scoffed  Old  Crumps,  whose  utterance  by 
this  time  stumbled.  "  I  suppose  you  expect  to  whip 
and  to  have  a  good  time.  I  suppose  you  brag  on  fight 
ing  and  enjoy  it." 

"  I  like  it  well  enough  when  it  goes  right ;  and  it  gen 
erally  does  go  right  -with  this  brigade.  I  should  like 
it  better  if  the  rebs  would  fire  higher  and  break 
quicker." 

"  That  depends  on  the  way  those  are  commanded 
whose  business  it  is  to  break  them,"  growled  Old 
Crumps.  "  I  don't  say  but  what  we  are  rightly  com 
manded,"  he  added,  remembering  his  duty  to  superiors. 
"  I  concede  and  acknowledge  that  our  would-be  Brig 
adier  knows  his  military  business.  But  the  blessing  of 
God,  Wallis !  I  believe  in  Waldron  as  a  soldier.  But 
as  a  man  and  a  Christian,  faugh !  " 

Gildersleeve  had  clearly  emptied  his  canteen  unas- 


SELECTIONS  275 

sisted ;  he  never  talked  about  Christianity  when  per 
fectly  sober. 

"  What  was  your  last  remark  ? "  inquired  Wallis, 
taking  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  to  grin.  Even  a  su 
perior  officer  might  be  chaffed  a  little  in  the  dark 
ness. 

"  I  made  no  last  remark,"  asserted  the  Colonel  with 
dignity.  "  I'm  not  a-dying  yet.  If  I  said  anything 
last  it  was  a  mere  exclamation  of  disgust — the  disgust 
of  an  officer  and  gentleman.  I  suppose  you  know 
something  about  our  would-be  Brigadier.  I  suppose 
you  think  you  know  something  about  him." 

"  Bet  you  I  know  all  about  him,"  affirmed  Wallis. 
"  He  enlisted  in  the  old  Tenth  as  a  common  soldier. 
Before  he  had  been  a  week  in  camp  they  found  that 
he  knew  his  biz,  and  they  made  him  a  Sergeant.  Be 
fore  we  started  for  the  field  the  Governor  got  his  eye 
on  him  and  shoved  him  into  a  Lieutenancy.  The  first 
battle  h'isted  him  to  a  Captain.  And  the  second — 
bang!  whiz!  he  shot  up  to  Colonel,  right  over  the 
heads  of  everybody,  line  and  fkld.  Nobody  in  the 
old  Tenth  grumbled.  They  saw  that  he  knew  his  biz. 
I  know  all  about  him.  What'll  you  bet?  " 

"  I'm  not  a  betting  man,  Lieutenant,  except  in  a 
friendly  game  of  poker,"  sighed  Old  Crumps.  "  You 
don't  know  anything  about  your  Brigadier,"  he  added 
in  a  sepulchral  murmur,  the  echo  of  an  empty  canteen. 
"  I  have  only  been  in  this  brigade  a  month,  and  I 
know  more  than  you  do,  far,  very  far  more,  sorry  to 
say  it.  He's  a  reformed  clergyman.  He's  an  aposta 
tized  minister."  The  Colonel's  voice  as  he  said  this 
was  solemn  and  sad  enough  to  do  credit  to  an  under- 


276  MEMORIAL  DAY 

taker.  "  It's  a  bad  sort,  Wallis,"  he  continued,  after 
another  deep  sigh,  a  very  highly  perfumed  one,  the  sigh 
of  a  bar-keeper.  "  When  a  clergyman  falls,  he  falls 
for  life  and  eternity,  like  a  woman  or  an  angel.  I 
never  knew  a  backslidden  shepherd  to  come  to  good. 
Sooner  or  later  he  always  goes  to  the  devil,  and  takes 
down  whomsoever  hangs  to  him." 

"He'll  take  down  the  old  Tenth,  then,"  asserted 
Wallis.  "  It  hangs  to  him.  Bet  you  two  to  one  he 
takes  it  along." 

"You're  right,  Adjutant;  spoken  like  a  soldier," 
swore  Gildersleeve.  "  And  the  Bloody  Fourteenth, 
too !  It  will  march  into  the  burning  pit  as  far  as  any 
regiment;  and  the  whole  brigade,  yes  sir!  But  a 
backslidden  shepherd,  my  God!  Have  we  come  to 
that?  I  often  say  to  myself,  in  the  solemn  hours  of 
the  night,  as  I  remember  my  Sabbath-school  days, 
'  Great  Scott,  have  we  come  to  that  ? '  A  reformed 
clergyman !  An  apostatized  minister !  Think  of  it, 
Wallis,  think  of  it!  Why,  sir,  his  very  wife  ran 
away  from  him.  They  had  but  just  buried  their  first 
boy,"  pursued  Old  Crumps,  his  hoarse  voice  sinking  to 
a  whimper.  "  They  drove  home  from  the  burial-place, 
where  lay  the  new-made  grave.  Arrived  at  their  door, 
he  got  out  and  extended  his  hand  to  help  her  out. 
Instead  of  accepting,  instead  of  throwing  herself  into 
his  arms  and  weeping  there,  she  turned  to  the  coach 
man  and  said,  *  Driver,  drive  me  to  my  father's  house.' 
That  was  the  end  of  their  wedded  life,  Wallis." 

The  Colonel  actually  wept  at  this  point,  and  the 
maudlin  tears  were  not  altogether  insincere.  His  own 
wife  and  children  he  heartily  loved,  and  remembered 


SELECTIONS  277 

them  now  with  honest  tenderness.  At  home  he  was 
not  a  drinker  and  a  rough ;  only  amid  the  hardships 
and  perils  of  the  field. 

"  That  was  the  end  of  it,  Wallis,"  he  repeated. 
"  And  what  was  it  while  it  lasted  ?  What  does  a 
woman  leave  her  husband  for?  Why  does  she  sep 
arate  from  him  over  the  grave  of  her  innocent  first 
born  ?  There  are  twenty  reasons,  but  they  must  all  of 
them  be  good  ones.  I  am  sorry  to  give  it  as  my  de 
cided  opinion,  Wallis,  in  perfect  confidence,  that  they 
must  all  be  whopping  good  ones.  Well,  that  was  the 
beginning;  only  the  beginning.  After  that  he  held 
on  for  a  while,  breaking  the  bread  of  life  to  a  ske 
daddling  flock,  and  then  he  bolted.  The  next  known 
of  him,  three  years  later,  he  enlisted  in  your  regiment, 
a  smart  but  seedy  recruit,  smelling  strongly  of  whisky." 

"  I  wish  I  smelt  half  as  strong  of  it  myself,"  grum 
bled  Wallis.  "  It  might  keep  out  the  swamp  fever." 

"  That's  the  true  story  of  Colonel  John  James  Wal- 
dron,"  continued  Old  Crumps,  with  a  groan  which 
was  very  somnolent,  as  if  it  were  a  twin  to  a  snore. 
"  That's  the  true  story." 

"  I  don't  believe  the  first  word  of  it — that  is  to  say, 
Colonel,  I  think  you  have  been  misinformed — and  I'll 
bet  you  two  to  one  on  it.  If  he  was  nothing  more 
than  a  minister,  how  did  he  know  drill  and  tactics  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  forgot  to  say,  he  went  through  West  Point, — 
that  is,  nearly  through.  They  graduated  him  in  his 
third  year  by  the  back  door,  Wallis." 

"  Oh,  that  was  it,  was  it?  He  was  a  West  Pointer, 
was  he?  Well,  then,  the  blacksliding  was  natural, 
and  oughtn't  to  count  against  him.  A  member  of 


278  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Benny  Havens'  church  has  a  right  to  backslide  any 
where,  especially  as  the  Colonel  doesn't  seem  to  be 
any  worse  than  some  of  the  rest  of  us,  who  haven't 
fallen  from  grace  the  least  particle,  but  took  our  stand 
at  the  start  just  where  we  are  now.  A  fellow  that 
begins  with  a  handful  of  trumps  has  a  right  to  play  a 
risky  game." 

"  I  know  what  euchered  him,  Wallis.  It  was  the 
old  Little  Joker;  and  there's  another  of  the  same  on 
hand  now/' 

"  On  hand  where  ?  What  are  you  driving  at,  Col 
onel?" 

"  He  looks  like  a  boy.  I  mean  she  looks  like  a 
boy.  You  know  what  I  mean,  Wallis;  I  mean  the 
boy  that  makes  believe  wait  on  him.  And  her 
brother  is  in  camp,  got  here  to-night.  There'll  be 
an  explanation  to-morrow,  and  there'll  be  blood 
shed." 

"  Good-night,  Colonel,  and  sleep  it  off,"  said  Wallis, 
rising  from  the  side  of  a  man  whom  he  believed  to 
be  sillily  drunk,  and  altogether  untrustworthy.  "  You 
know  we  get  after  the  rebs  at  dawn." 

"  I  know  it — goo-night,  Adjutant — gawbless-you," 
mumbled  Old  Crumps.  "  We'll  lick  those  rebs,  won't 
we?"  he  chuckled.  "Goo-night,  ole  fellow,  an'  gaw- 
blessyou." 

Whereupon  Old  Crumps  fell  asleep,  very  absurdly 
overcome  by  liquor,  we  extremely  regret  to  concede, 
but  nobly  sure  to  do  his  soldierly  duty  as  soon  as  he 
should  awake. 

Stumbling  wearily  blanketward,  Wallis  found  his 
Major  and  regimental  commander,  the  genial  and  gal- 


SELECTIONS  279 

lant  Gahogan,  slumbering  in  a  peace  like  that  of  the 
just.  He  stretched  himself  a-near,  put  out  his  hand  to 
touch  his  saber  and  revolver,  drew  his  caped  great-coat 
over  him,  moved  once  to  free  his  back  of  a  root  or 
pebble,  glanced  languidly  at  a  single  struggling  star, 
thought  for  an  instant  of  his  far-away  mother,  turned 
his  head  with  a  sigh,  and  slept.  In  the  morning  he 
was  to  fight,  and  perhaps  to  die;  but  the  boyish  vet 
eran  was  too  seasoned,  and  also  too  tired,  to  mind 
that;  he  could  mind  but  one  thing — nature's  pleading 
for  rest. 

In  the  iron-gray  dawn,  while  the  troops  were  falling 
dimly  and  spectrally  into  line,  and  he  was  mounting 
his  horse  to  be  ready  for  orders,  he  remembered  Gil- 
dersleeve's  drunken  tale  concerning  the  commandant, 
and  laughed  aloud.  But  turning  his  face  toward 
brigade  headquarters  (a  sylvan  region  marked  out  by 
the  branches  of  a  great  oak),  he  was  surprised  to  see 
a  strange  officer,  a  fair  young  man  in  Captain's  uni 
form,  riding  slowly  toward  it. 

"Is  that  the  Boy's  brother?"  he  said  to  himself; 
and  in  the  next  instant  he  had  forgotten  the  whole 
subject;  it  was  time  to  form  and  present  the  regi 
ment. 

Quietly  and  without  tap  of  drum  the  small  battle- 
worn  battalions  filed  out  of  their  bivouac  into  the 
highway,  ordered  arms  and  waited  for  the  word  to 
march.  With  a  dull  rumble  the  field-pieces  trundled 
slowly  after,  and  halted  in  rear  of  the  infantry.  The 
cavalry  trotted  off  circuitously  through  the  fields, 
emerged  upon  the  road  in  advance,  and  likewise  halted, 
all  but  a  single  company,  which  pushed  on  for  half 


280  MEMORIAL  DAY 

a  mile,  spreading  out  as  it  went  into  a  thin  line  of 
skirmishers. 

Meanwhile  a  strange  interview  took  place  near  the 
great  oak  which  had  sheltered  brigade  headquarters. 
As  the  unknown  officer,  whom  Wallis  had  noted,  ap 
proached  it,  Colonel  Waldron  was  standing  by  his 
horse  ready  to  mount.  The  commandant  was  a  man 
of  medium  size,  fairly  handsome  in  person  and 
features,  and  apparently  about  twenty-eight  years  of 
age.  Perhaps  it  was  the  singular  breadth  of  his  fore 
head  which  made  the  lower  part  of  his  face  look  so 
unusually  slight  and  feminine.  His  eyes  were  dark 
hazel,  as  clear,  brilliant,  and  tender  as  a  girl's,  and 
brimming  full  of  a  pensiveness  which  seemed  both 
loving  and  melancholy.  Few  persons,  at  all  events 
few  women,  who  looked  upon  him  ever  looked  be 
yond  his  eyes.  They  were  very  fascinating,  and  in 
a  man's  countenance  very  strange.  They  were  the 
kind  of  eyes  which  reveal  passionate  romances,  and 
which  make  them. 

By  his  side  stood  a  boy,  a  singularly  interesting  and 
beautiful  boy,  fair-haired  and  blue-eyed,  and  delicate 
in  color.  When  this  boy  saw  the  stranger  approach 
he  turned  as  pale  as  marble,  slid  away  from  the  brigade 
commander's  side,  and  disappeared  behind  a  group  of 
staff  officers  and  orderlies.  The  newcomer  also  be 
came  deathly  white  as  he  glanced  after  the  retreat 
ing  youth.  Then  he  dismounted,  touched  his  cap 
slightly,  and,  as  if  mechanically,  advanced  a  few 
steps,  and  said  hoarsely,  k'  I  believe  this  is  Colonel 
Waldron.  I  am  Captain  Fitz  Hugh,  of  the  -  — th 
Delaware." 


SELECTIONS  281 

Waldron  put  his  hand  to  his  revolver,  withdrew  it 
instantaneously,  and  stood  motionless. 

"  I  am  on  leave  of  absence  from  my  regiment,  Col 
onel,"  continued  Fitz  Hugh,  speaking  now  with  an 
elaborate  ceremoniousness  of  utterance  significant  of 
a  struggle  to  suppress  violent  emotion.  "  I  suppose 
you  can  understand  why  I  made  use  of  it  in  seeking 
you." 

Waldron  hesitated;  he  stood  gazing  at  the  earth 
with  the  air  of  one  who  repressed  deep  pain;  at  last, 
after  a  profound  sigh,  he  raised  his  eyes  and  an 
swered  : 

"  Captain,  we  are  on  the  eve  of  a  battle.  I  must 
attend  to  my  public  duties  first.  After  the  battle  we 
will  settle  our  private  affair." 

"  There  is  but  one  way  to  settle  it,  Colonel." 

"  You  shall  have  your  way  if  you  will.  You  shall 
do  what  you  will.  I  only  ask  what  good  will  it  do  to 
her?" 

"  It  will  do  good  to  me,  Colonel,"  whispered  Fitz 
Hugh,  suddenly  turning  crimson.  "  You  forget  me" 

Waldron's  face  also  flushed,  and  an  angry  sparkle 
shot  from  under  his  lashes  in  reply  to  this  utterance 
of  hate,  but  it  died  out  in  an  instant. 

"  I  have  done  a  wrong,  and  I  will  accept  the  conse 
quences,"  he  said.  "  I  pledge  you  my  word  that  I 
will  be  at  your  disposal  if  I  survive  the  battle.  Where 
do  you  propose  to  remain  meanwhile  ?  " 

"  I  will  take  the  same  chance,  Sir.  I  propose  to  do 
my  share  in  the  fighting  if  you  will  use  me." 

"  I  am  short  of  staff  officers.  Will  you  act  as  my 
aid?" 


282  MEMORIAL  DAY 

"  I  will,  Colonel,"  bowed  Fitz  Hugh,  with  a  glance 
which  expressed  surprise,  and  perhaps  admiration,  at 
this  confidence. 

Waldron  turned,  beckoned  his  staff  officers  to  ap 
proach,  and  said,  "  Gentlemen,  this  is  Captain  Fitz 

Hugh  of  the th  Delaware.  He  has  volunteered  to 

join  us  for  the  day,  and  will  act  as  my  aid.  And 
now,  Captain,  will  you  ride  to  the  head  of  the  column 
and  order  it  forward?  There  will  be  no  drum-beat 
and  no  noise.  When  you  have  given  your  order  and 
seen  it  executed,  you  will  wait  for  me." 

Fitz  Hugh  saluted,  sprang  into  his  saddle,  and  gal 
loped  away.  A  few  minutes  later  the  whole  column 
was  plodding  on  silently  toward  its  bloody  goal.  To  a 
civilian,  unaccustomed  to  scenes  of  war,  the  tran 
quillity  of  these  men  would  have  seemed  very  wonder 
ful.  Many  of  the  soldiers  were  still  munching  the 
hard  bread  and  raw  pork  of  their  meager  breakfasts, 
or  drinking  the  cold  coffee  with  which  they  had  rilled 
their  canteens  the  day  previous.  Many  more  were 
chatting  in  an  undertone,  grumbling  over  their  sore 
feet  and  other  discomfits,  chaffing  each  other,  and 
laughing.  The  general  bearing,  however,  was  grave, 
patient,  quietly  enduring,  and  one  might  almost  say 
stolid.  You  would  have  said,  to  judge  by  their  ex 
pressions,  that  these  sunburnt  fellows  were  merely 
doing  hard  work,  and  thoroughly  commonplace  work, 
without  a  prospect  of  adventure,  and  much  less  of 
danger.  The  explanation  of  this  calmness,  so  brutal 
perhaps  to  the  eye  of  a  sensitive  soul,  lies  mainly  in 
the  fact  that  they  were  all  veterans,  the  survivors  of 
marches,  privations,  maladies,  sieges,  and  battles.  Not 


SELECTIONS  283 

a  regiment  present  numbered  four  hundred  men,  and 
the  average  was  not  above  three  hundred.  The  whole 
force,  including  artillery  and  cavalry,  might  have  been 
about  twenty-five  hundred  sabers  and  bayonets. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  march  Waldron  fell  into 
the  rear  of  his  staff  and  mounted  orderlies.  Then  the 
boy  who  had  fled  from  Fitz  Hugh  dropped  out  of  the 
tramping  escort,  and  rode  up  to  his  side. 

"  Well,  Charlie,"  said  Waldron,  casting  a  pitying 
glance  at  the  yet  pallid  face  and  anxious  eyes  of 
the  youth,  "  you  have  had  a  sad  fright.  I  make  you 
very  miserable." 

"  He  has  found  us  at  last,"  murmured  Charlie  in  a 
tremulous  soprano  voice.  "  What  did  he  say  ?  " 

"  We  are  to  talk  to-morrow.  He  acts  as  my  aide- 
de-camp  to-day.  I  ought  to  tell  you  frankly  that  he 
is  not  friendly." 

"  Of  course,  I  knew  it,"  sighed  Charlie,  while  the 
tears  fell. 

"  It  is  only  one  more  trouble— one  more  danger, 
and  perhaps  it  may  pass.  So  many  have  passed." 

"  Did  you  tell  him  anything  to  quiet  him  ?  Did  you 
tell  him  that  we  were  married  ?  " 

"  But  we  are  not  married,  yet,  Charlie.  We  shall 
be,  I  hope." 

"  But  you  ought  to  have  told  him  that  we  were. 
It  might  stop  him  from  doing  something — mad.  Why 
didn't  you  tell  him  so?  Why  didn't  you  think  of  it?  " 

"  My  dear  little  child,  we  are  about  to  have  a  battle. 
I  should  like  to  carry  some  honor  and  truth  into  it." 

"  Where  is  he  ? "  continued  Charlie,  unconvinced 
and  unappeased.  "  I  want  to  see  him.  Is  he  at  the 


284  MEMORIAL  DAY 

head  of  the  column?  I  want  to  speak  to  him,  just 
one  word.  He  won't  hurt  me." 

She  suddenly  spurred  her  horse,  wheeled  into  the 
fields,  and  dashed  onward.  Fitz  Hugh  was  lounging 
in  his  saddle,  and  somberly  surveying  the  passing 
column,  when  she  galloped  up  to  him. 

"  Carrol !  "  she  said,  in  a  choked  voice,  reining  in  by 
his  side,  and  leaning  forward  to  touch  his  sleeve. 

He  threw  one  glance  at  her — a  glance  of  aversion, 
if  not  of  downright  hatred,  and  turned  his  back  in 
silence. 

"  He  is  my  husband,  Carrol,"  she  went  on  rapidly. 
"  I  knew  you  didn't  understand  it.  I  ought  to  have 
written  you  about  it.  I  thought  I  would  come  and 
tell  you  before  you  did  anything  absurd.  We  were 
married  as  soon  as  he  heard  that  his  wife  was  dead." 

"What  is  the  use  of  this?"  he  muttered  hoarsely. 
"  She  is  not  dead.  I  heard  from  her  a  week  ago.  She 
was  living  a  week  ago." 

"  Oh,  Carrol !  "  stammered  Charlie.  "  It  was  some 
mistake  then.  Is  it  possible!  And  he  was  so  sure! 
But  he  can  get  a  divorce,  you  know.  She  abandoned 
him.  Or  she  can  get  one.  No,  he  can  get  it — of 
course,  when  she  abandoned  him.  But,  Carrol,  she 
must  be  dead — he  was  so  sure." 

"  She  is  not  dead,  I  tell  you.  And  there  can  be  no 
divorce.  Insanity  bars  all  claim  to  a  divorce.  She 
is  in  an  asylum.  She  had  to  leave  him,  and  then 
she  went  mad." 

"  Oh,  no,  Carrol,  it  is  all  a  mistake ;  it  is  not  so, 
Carrol,"  she  murmured  in  a  voice  so  faint  that  he 
could  not  help  glancing  at  her,  half  in  fury  and  half 


SELECTIONS  285 

in  pity.  She  was  slowly  falling  from  her  horse.  He 
sprang  from  his  saddle,  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and 
laid  her  on  the  turf,  wishing  the  while  that  it  covered 
her  grave.  Just  then  one  of  Waldron's  orderlies  rode 
up  and  exclaimed :  "  What  is  the  matter  with  the — the 
Boy?  Hullo,  Charlie." 

Fitz  Hugh  stared  at  the  man  in  silence,  tempted  to 
tear  him  from  his  horse.  "  The  boy  is  ill,"  he  an 
swered  when  he  recovered  his  self-command.  "  Take 
charge  of  him  yourself."  He  remounted,  rode  on 
ward  out  of  sight  beyond  a  thicket,  and  there  waited 
for  the  brigade  commander,  now  and  then  fingering 
his  revolver.  As  Charlie  was  being  placed  in  an  am 
bulance  by  the  orderly  and  a  sergeant's  wife,  Waldron 
came  up,  reined  in  his  horse  violently,  and  asked  in 
a  furious  voice,  "  Is  that  boy  hurt?  " 

"  Ah — fainted,"  he  added  immediately.  :<  Thank 
you,  Mrs.  Gunner.  Take  good  care  of  him — the  best 
of  care,  my  dear  woman,  and  don't  let  him  leave  you 
all  day." 

Further  on,  when  Fitz  Hugh  silently  fell  into  his 
escort  he  merely  glanced  at  him  in  a  furtive  way, 
and  then  cantered  on  rapidly  to  the  head  of  the  cav 
alry.  There  he  beckoned  to  the  tall,  grave,  iron-gray 
Chaplain  of  the  Tenth,  and  rode  with  him  for  nearly 
an  hour,  apart,  engaged  in  low  and  seemingly  im 
passioned  discourse.  From  this  interview  Mr.  Colqu- 
houn  returned  to  the  escort  with  a  strangely  solem 
nized,  tender  countenance,  while  the  commandant,  with 
a  more  cheerful  air  than  he  had  yet  worn  that  day, 
gave  himself  to  his  martial  duties,  inspecting  the  land 
scape  incessantly  with  his  glass,  and  sending  fre- 


286  MEMORIAL  DAY 

quently  for  news  to  the  advance  scouts.  It  may  prop 
erly  be  stated  here  that  the  Chaplain  never  divulged 
to  anyone  the  nature  of  the  conversation  which  he  had 
held  with  his  Colonel. 

Nothing  further  of  note  occurred  until  the  little 
army,  after  two  hours  of  plodding  march,  wound 
through  a  sinuous,  wooded  ravine,  entered  a  broad, 
bare,  slightly  undulating  valley,  and  for  the  second 
time  halted.  Waldron  galloped  to  the  summit  of  a 
knoll,  pointed  to  a  long  eminence  which  faced  him 
from  two  miles  distant,  and  said  tranquilly,  "  There 
is  our  battle-ground." 

"  Is  that  the  enemy's  position  ?  "  returned  Captain 
Ives,  his  Adjutant-General.  "  We  shall  have  a  tough 
job  if  we  go  at  it  from  here." 

Waldron  remained  in  deep  thought  for  some  min 
utes,  meanwhile  scanning  the  ridge  and  all  its  sur 
roundings. 

"  What  I  want  to  know,"  he  observed,  at  last,  "  is 
whether  they  have  occupied  the  wooded  knolls  in 
front  of  their  right  and  around  their  right  flank." 

Shortly  afterward  the  commander  of  the  scouting 
squadron  came  riding  back  at  a  furious  pace. 

"  They  are  on  the  hill,  Colonel,"  he  shouted. 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  nodded  Waldron ;  "  but  have  they 
occupied  the  woods  which  veil  their  right  front  and 
flank?" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it ;  my  fellows  have  cantered  all 
through,  and  up  to  the  base  of  the  hill." 

"  Ah ! "  exclaimed  the  brigade  commander,  with  a 
rush  of  elation.  "  Then  it  will  be  easy  work.  Go 
back,  Captain,  and  scatter  your  men  through  the  wood, 


SELECTIONS  287 

and  hold  it,  if  possible.  Adjutant,  call  up  the  regi 
mental  commanders  at  once.  I  want  them  to  under 
stand  my  plan  fully." 

In  a  few  minutes  Gahogan,  of  the  Tenth;  Gilder- 
sleeve,  of  the  Fourteenth ;  Peck,  of  the  First ;  Thomas, 
of  the  Seventh ;  Taylor,  of  the  Eighth,  and  Colburn,  of 
the  Fifth,  were  gathered  around  their  commander. 
There,  too,  was  Bradley,  the  boyish,  red-cheeked  chief 
of  the  artillery;  and  Stilton,  the  rough,  old,  bearded 
regular,  who  headed  the  cavalry.  The  staff  was  at 
hand,  also,  including  Fitz  Hugh,  who  sat  his  horse, 
a  little  apart,  downcast  and  somber  and  silent,  but 
nevertheless  keenly  interested.  It  is  worthy  of  re 
mark,  by  the  way,  that  Waldron  took  no  special 
note  of  him,  and  did  not  seem  conscious  of  any  dis 
turbing  presence.  Evil  as  the  man  may  have  been,  he 
was  a  thoroughly  good  soldier,  and  just  now  he 
thought  but  of  his  duties. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  I  want  you  to  see  your 
field  of  battle.  The  enemy  occupy  that  long  ridge. 
How  shall  we  reach  it?" 

"  I  think,  if  we  go  at  it  straight  from  here,  we 
shan't  miss  it,"  promptly  judged  Old  Crumps,  his 
red-oak  countenance  admirably  cheerful  and  hopeful, 
and  his  jealousy  all  dissolved  in  the  interest  of  ap 
proaching  combat. 

"  Nor  they  won't  miss  us  nuther,"  laugher  Major 
Gahogan.  "  Better  slide  our  infantree  into  thim  wuds, 
push  up  our  skirmishers,  play  away  wid  our  guns  for 
an  hour,  an'  thin  rowl  in  a  couple  o'  col'ms." 

There  was  a  general  murmur  of  approval.  The 
limits  of  volunteer  invention  in  tactics  had  been 


288  MEMORIAL  DAY 

reached  by  Gahogan.  The  other  regimental  com 
manders  looked  upon  him  as  their  superior  in  the  art  of 
war. 

"  That  would  be  well,  Major,  if  we  could  do  nothing 
better,"  said  Waldron.  "  But  I  do  not  feel  obliged  to 
attack  the  front  seriously  at  all.  The  rebels  have 
been  thoughtless  enough  to  leave  that  long  semicircle 
of  wooded  knolls  unoccupied,  even  by  scouts.  It 
stretches  from  the  front  of  their  center  clear  around 
their  right  flank.  I  shall  use  it  as  a  veil  to  cover 
us  while  we  get  into  position.  I  shall  throw  out  a 
regiment,  a  battery,  and  five  companies  of  cavalry,  to 
make  a  feint  against  their  center  and  left.  With  the 
remainder  of  the  brigade  I  shall  skirt  the  woods, 
double  around  the  right  of  the  position,  and  close  in 
upon  it  front  and  rear." 

"  Loike  scissors  blades  upon  a  snip  o'  paper," 
shouted  Gahogan,  in  delight.  Then  he  turned  to  Fitz 
Hugh,  who  happened  to  be  nearest  him,  and  added, 
"  I  tell  ye  he's  got  the  God  o'  War  in  um.  He's  the 
burrnin'  bussh  of  humanity,  wid  a  God  o'  Battles  in 
side  on't." 

"  But  how  if  they  come  down  on  our  thin  right 
wing?  "  asked  a  cautious  officer,  Taylor,  of  the  Eighth. 
'  They  might  smash  it  and  seize  our  line  of  retreat." 

"  Men  who  have  taken  up  a  strong  position,  a  posi 
tion  obviously  chosen  for  defense,  rarely  quit  it 
promptly  for  an  attack,"  replied  Waldron.  "  There  is 
not  one  chance  in  ten  that  these  gentlemen  will  make 
a  considerable  forward  movement  early  in  the  fight. 
Only  the  greatest  geniuses  jump  from  the  defensive 
to  the  offensive.  Besides,  we  must  hold  the  wood. 


SELECTIONS  289 

So  long  as  we  hold  the  wood  in  front  of  their  center 
we  save  the  road." 

Then  came  personal  and  detailed  instructions.  Each 
regimental  commander  was  told  whither  he  should 
march,  the  point  where  he  should  halt  to  form  line, 
and  the  direction  by  which  he  should  attack.  The 
mass  of  the  command  was  to  advance  in  marching  col 
umn  toward  a  knoll  where  the  highway  entered  and 
traversed  the  wood.  Some  time  before  reaching  it 
Taylor  was  to  deploy  the  Eighth  to  the  right,  throw  out 
a  strong  skirmish  line,  and  open  fire  on  the  enemy's 
center  and  left,  supported  by  the  battery  of  Parrotts, 
and,  if  pushed,  by  five  companies  of  cavalry.  The  re 
maining  troops  would  reach  the  knoll,  file  to  the  left 
under  cover  of  the  forest,  skirt  it  for  a  mile  as  rapidly 
as  possible,  enfold  the  right  of  the  Confederate  posi 
tion,  and  then  move  upon  it  concentrically.  Counting 
from  the  left,  the  Tenth,  the  Seventh,  and  the  Four 
teenth  were  to  constitute  the  first  line  of  battle,  while 
five  companies  of  cavalry,  then  the  First,  and  then 
the  Fifth  formed  the  second  line.  Not  until  Gaho- 
gan  might  have  time  to  wind  into  the  enemy's  right 
rear  should  Gildersleeve  move  out  of  the  wood  and 
commence  the  real  attack. 

"  You  will  go  straight  at  the  front  of  their  right," 
said  Waldron,  with  a  gay  smile,  to  this  latter  Colonel. 
"  Send  up  two  companies  as  skirmishers.  The  moment 
they  are  clearly  checked,  lead  up  the  other  eight  in 
line.  It  will  be  rough  work.  But  keep  pushing.  You 
won't  have  fifteen  minutes  of  it  before  Thomas,  on 
your  left,  will  be  climbing  the  end  of  the  ridge  to 
take  the  rebels  in  flank.  In  fifteen  minutes  more  Ga- 


290  MEMORIAL  DAY 

hogan  will  be  running  in  on  their  backs.  Of  course, 
they  will  try  to  change  front  and  meet  us.  But  they 
have  extended  their  line  a  long  way  in  order  to  cover 
the  whole  ridge.  They  will  not  be  quick  enough.  We 
shall  get  hold  of  their  right,  and  we  shall  roll  them 
up.  Then,  Colonel  Stilton,  I  shall  expect  to  see  the 
troopers  jumping  into  the  gaps  and  making  prisoners." 

"  All  right,  Colonel,"  answered  Stilton  in  that  hoarse 
growl  which  is  apt  to  mark  the  old  cavalry  officer. 
"  Where  shall  we  find  you  if  we  want  a  fresh  order?  " 

"  I  shall  be  with  Colburn,  in  rear  of  Gildersleeve. 
That  is  our  center.  But  never  mind  me;  you  know 
what  the  battle  is  to  be,  and  you  know  how  to  fight  it. 
The  whole  point  with  the  infantry  is  to  fold  around 
the  enemy's  right,  go  in  upon  it  concentrically,  smash 
it,  and  roll  up  their  line.  The  cavalry  will  watch 
against  the  infantry  being  flanked,  and  when  the 
latter  have  seized  the  hill,  will  charge  for  prisoners. 
The  artillery  will  reply  to  the  enemy's  guns  with  shell, 
and  fire  grape  at  any  offensive  demonstration.  You 
all  know  your  duties,  now,  gentlemen.  Go  to  your 
commands,  and  march !  " 

The  Colonels  saluted  and  started  off  at  a  gallop. 
In  a  few  minutes  twenty-five  hundred  men  were  in 
simultaneous  movement.  Five  companies  of  cavalry 
wheeled  into  column  of  companies,  and  advanced  at 
a  trot  through  the  fields,  seeking  to  gain  the  shelter  of 
the  forest.  The  six  infantry  regiments  slid  up  along 
side  of  each  other,  and  pushed  on  in  six  parallel  col 
umns  of  march,  two  on  the  right  of  the  road  and  four 
on  the  left.  The  artillery,  which  alone  left  the  high 
way,  followed  at  a  distance  of  two  or  three  hundred 


SELECTIONS  291 

yards.  The  remaining  cavalry  made  a  wide  detour  to 
the  right,  as  if  to  flank  the  enemy's  left. 

It  was  a  mile  and  a  quarter — it  was  a  march  of  fully 
twenty  minutes — to  the  edge  of  the  woodland,  the  pro 
posed  cover  of  the  column.  Ten  minutes  before  this 
point  was  reached  a  tiny  puff  of  smoke  showed  on 
the  brow  of  the  hostile  ridge;  then,  at  an  interval  of 
several  seconds,  followed  the  sound  of  a  distant  ex 
plosion;  then,  almost  immediately  came  the  screech  of 
a  rifled  shell.  Every  man  who  heard  it  swiftly  asked 
himself,  "  Will  it  strike  me?  "  But  ever  as  the  words 
were  thought  out  it  had  passed,  high  in  air,  clean  to 
the  rear,  and  burst  harmlessly.  A  few  faces  turned 
upward  and  a  few  eyes  glanced  backward,  as  if  to 
see  the  invisible  enemy.  But  there  was  no  pause  in 
the  column ;  it  flowed  onward  quietly,  eagerly,  and  with 
business-like  precision;  it  gave  forth  no  sound  but 
the  trampling  of  feet  and  the  muttering  of  the  officers, 
"  Steady,  men !  Forward,  men." 

The  Confederates,  however,  had  got  their  range. 
A  half-minute  later  four  puffs  of  smoke  dotted  the 
ridge,  and  a  flight  of  hoarse  humming  shrieks  tore 
the  air.  A  little  aureole  cracked  and  splintered  over 
the  First,  followed  by  loud  cries  of  anguish  and  a  brief, 
slight  confusion.  The  voice  of  an  officer  rose  sharply 
out  of  the  flurry.  "  Close  up,  Company  A !  Forward, 
men ! "  The  battalion  column  resumed  its  even 
formation  in  an  instant,  and  tramped  unitedly  on 
ward,  leaving  behind  it  two  quivering  corpses  and  a 
wounded  man  who  tottered  rearward. 

Then  came  more  screeches,  and  a  shell  exploded 
over  the  highroad,  knocking  a  gunner  lifeless  from 


292  MEMORIAL  DAY 

his  carriage.  The  brigade  commander  glanced 
anxiously  along  his  batteries,  and  addressed  a  few 
words  to  his  chief  of  artillery.  Presently  the  four  Na 
poleons  set  forward  at  a  gallop  for  the  wood,  while  the 
four  Parrotts  wheeled  to  the  right,  deployed,  and 
advanced  across  the  fields,  inclining  toward  the  left 
of  the  enemy.  Next,  Taylor's  regiment  (the  Eighth) 
halted,  fronted,  faced  to  the  right,  and  filed  off  in  col 
umn  of  march  at  a  double-quick  until  it  had  gained 
the  rear  of  the  Parrotts,  when  it  fronted  again,  and 
pushed  on  in  support.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  further 
on  these  guns  went  into  battery  behind  the  brow  of  a 
little  knoll,  and  opened  fire.  Four  companies  of  the 
Eighth  spread  out  to  the  right  as  skirmishers,  and 
commenced  stealing  toward  the  ridge,  from  time  to 
time  measuring  the  distance  with  rifle-balls.  The  re 
mainder  of  the  regiment  lay  down  in  line  between  the 
Parrotts  and  the  forest.  Far  away  to  the  right,  five 
companies  of  cavalry  showed  themselves,  maneuvering 
as  if  they  proposed  to  turn  the  left  flank  of  the  South 
erners.  The  attack  on  this  side  was  in  form  and  in 
operation. 

Meantime  the  Confederate  fire  had  divided.  Two 
guns  pounded  away  at  Taylor's  feint,  while  two  shelled 
the  main  column.  The  latter  was  struck  repeatedly; 
more  than  twenty  men  dropped  silent  or  groaning  out 
of  the  hurrying  files ;  but  the  survivors  pushed  on 
without  faltering,  and  without  even  caring  for  the 
wounded.  At  last  a  broad  belt  of  green  branches  rose 
between  the  regiments  and  the  ridge;  and  the  rebel 
gunners,  unable  to  see  their  foe,  dropped  suddenly  into 
silence. 


SELECTIONS  293 

Here  it  appeared  that  the  road  divided.  The  high 
way  traversed  the  forest,  mounted  the  slope  beyond, 
and  dissected  the  enemy's  position,  while  a  branch 
road  turned  to  the  left  and  skirted  the  exterior  of  the 
long  curve  of  wooded  hillocks.  At  the  fork  the  bat 
tery  of  Napoleons  had  halted,  and  there  it  was  ordered 
to  remain  for  the  present  in  quiet.  There,  too,  the 
Fourteenth  filed  in  among  the  dense  greenery,  threw 
out  two  companies  of  skirmishers  toward  the  ridge, 
and  pushed  slowly  after  them  into  the  shadows. 

"  Get  sight  of  the  enemy  at  once !  "  was  Waldron's 
last  word  to  Gildersleeve.  "  If  they  move  down  the 
slope,  drive  them  back.  But  don't  commence  your 
attack  under  half  an  hour." 

Next  he  filed  the  Fifth  into  the  thickets,  saying  to 
Colburn,  "  I  want  you  to  halt  a  hundred  yards  to  the 
left  and  rear  of  Gildersleeve.  Cover  his  flank  if  he  is 
attacked;  but  otherwise  lie  quiet.  As  soon  as  he 
charges,  move  forward  to  the  edge  of  the  wood,  and 
be  ready  to  support  him.  But  make  no  assault  your 
self  until  further  orders." 

The  two  next  regiments — the  Seventh  and  First — 
he  placed  in  echelon,  in  like  manner,  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
further  along.  Then  he  galloped  forward  to  the  cav 
alry,  and  had  a  last  word  with  Stilton.  "  You  and 
Gahogan  must  take  care  of  yourselves.  Push  on  four 
or  five  hundred  yards,  and  then  face  to  the  right. 
Whatever  Gahogan  finds  let  him  go  at  it.  If  he  can't 
shake  it,  help  him.  You  two  must  reach  the  top  of 
the  ridge.  Only,  look  out  for  your  left  flank.  Keep 
a  squadron  or  two  in  reserve  on  that  side." 

"  Currnel,  if  we  don't  raich  the  top  of  the  hill,  it'll 


294  MEMORIAL  DAY 

be  because  it  hasn't  got  wan,"  answered  Gahogan. 
Stilton  only  laughed  and  rode  forward. 

Waldron  now  returned  toward  the  fork  of  the  road. 
On  the  way  he  sent  a  staff  officer  to  the  Seventh  with 
renewed  orders  to  attack  as  soon  as  possible  after 
Gildersleeve.  Then  another  staff  officer  was  hurried 
forward  to  Taylor  with  directions  to  push  his  feint 
strongly,  and  drive  his  skirmishers  as  far  up  the  slope 
as  they  could  get.  A  third  staff  officer  set  the  Par- 
rotts  in  rear  of  Taylor  to  firing  with  all  their  might. 
By  the  time  that  the  commandant  had  returned  to 
Colburn's  ambushed  ranks,  no  one  was  with  him  but 
his  enemy,  Fitz  Hugh. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  trust  me  with  duty,  Colonel," 
said  the  young  man. 

"  I  shall  use  you  only  in  case  of  extremity,  Captain," 
replied  Waldron.  "  We  have  business  to  settle  to 
morrow." 

"  I  ask  no  favors  on  that  account.  I  hope  you  will 
offer  me  none." 

"  In  case  of  need  I  shall  spare  no  one,"  declared 
Waldron. 

Then  he  took  out  his  watch,  looked  at  it  impatiently, 
put  it  to  his  ear,  restored  it  to  his  pocket,  and  fell 
into  an  attitude  of  deep  attention.  Evidently  his 
whole  mind  was  on  his  battle,  and  he  was  waiting, 
watching,  yearning  for  its  outburst. 

"  If  he  wins  this  fight,"  thought  Fitz  Hugh,  "  how 
can  I  do  him  a  harm  ?  And  yet,"  he  added,  "  how  can 
I  help  it?" 

Minutes  passed.  Fitz  Hugh  tried  to  think  of  his  in 
jury,  and  to  steel  himself  against  his  chief.  But  the 


SELECTIONS  295 

roar  of  battle  on  the  right,  and  the  suspense  and  im 
minence  of  battle  on  the  left,  absorbed  the  attention 
of  even  this  wounded  and  angry  spirit,  as,  indeed,  they 
might  have  absorbed  that  of  any  being  not  more  or  less 
than  human.  A  private  wrong,  insupportable  though 
it  might  be,  seemed  so  small  amid  that  deadly  clamor 
and  awful  expectation !  Moreover,  the  intellect  which 
worked  so  calmly  and  vigorously  by  his  side,  and 
which  alone  of  all  things  near  appeared  able  to  rule 
the  coming  crisis,  began  to  dominate  him,  in  spite 
of  his  sense  of  injury.  A  thought  crossed  him  to  the 
effect  that  the  great  among  men  are  too  valuable  to  be 
punished  for  their  evil  deeds.  He  turned  to  the  ob- 
sorbed  brigade  commander,  now  not  only  his  ruler, 
but  even  his  protector,  with  a  feeling  that  he  must  ac 
cord  him  a  word  of  peace,  a  proffer  in  some  form  of 
possible  forgiveness  and  friendship.  But  the  man's 
face  was  clouded  and  stern  with  responsibility  and 
authority.  He  seemed  at  that  moment  too  lofty  to  be 
approached  with  a  message  of  pardon.  Fitz  Hugh 
gazed  at  him  with  a  mixture  of  profound  respect  and 
smothered  hate.  He  gazed,  turned  away,  and  re 
mained  sile  it. 

Minutes  more  passed.  Then  a  mounted  orderly 
dashed  up  at  full  speed,  with  the  words,  "  Colonel, 
Major  Gahogan  has  fronted." 

"  Has  he?"  answered  Waldron,  with  a  smile  which 
thanked  the  trooper  and  made  him  happy.  "  Ride 
on  through  the  thicket  here,  my  man,  and  tell  Col 
onel  Gildersleeve  to  push  up  his  skirmishers." 

With  a  thud  of  hoofs  and  a  rustling  of  parting 
foliage  the  cavalryman  disappeared  amid  the  under- 


296  MEMORIAL  DAY 

wood.  A  minute  or  two  later  a  thin,  dropping  rattle 
of  musketry,  five  hundred  yards  or  so  to  the  front, 
announced  that  the  sharpshooters  of  the  Fourteenth 
were  at  work.  Almost  immediately  there  was  an 
angry  response,  full  of  the  threatenings  and  execution 
of  death.  Through  the  lofty  leafage  tore  the  screech 
of  a  shell,  bursting  with  a  sharp  crash  as  it  passed 
overhead,  and  scattering  in  humming  slivers.  Then 
came  another,  and  another,  and  many  more,  chasing 
each  other  with  hoarse  hissings  through  the  trembling 
air,  a  succession  of  flying  serpents.  The  enemy  doubt 
less  believed  that  nearly  the  whole  attacking  force  was 
massed  in  the  wood  around  the  road,  and  they  had 
brought  at  least  four  guns  to  bear  upon  that  point,  and 
were  working  them  with  the  utmost  possible  rapidity. 
Presently  a  large  chestnut,  not  fifty  yards  from  Fitz 
Hugh,  was  struck  by  a  shot.  The  solid  trunk,  nearly 
three  feet  in  diameter,  parted  asunder  as  if  it  were 
the  brittlest  of  vegetable  matter.  The  upper  portion 
started  aside  with  a  monstrous  groan,  dropped  in  a 
standing  posture  to  the  earth,  and  then  topped  slowly, 
sublimely  prostrate,  its  branches  crashing  and  all  its 
leaves  wailing.  Ere  long,  a  little  further  to  the  front, 
another  Anak  of  the  forest  went  down;  and,  mingled 
with  the  noise  of  its  sylvan  agony,  there  arose  sharp 
cries  of  human  suffering.  Then  Colonel  Colburn,  a 
broad-chested  and  ruddy  man  of  thirty-five,  with  a 
look  of  indignant  anxiety  in  his  iron-gray  eyes,  rode 
up  to  the  brigade  commander. 

"  This  is  very  annoying,  Colonel,"  he  said.  "  I  am 
losing  my  men  without  using  them.  That  last  tree 
fell  into  my  command." 


SELECTIONS  297 

"  Are  they  firing  toward  our  left  ?  "  asked  Waldron. 

"  Not  a  shot" 

"  Very  good,"  said  the  chief,  with  a  sigh  of  content 
ment.  "If  we  can  only  keep  them  occupied  in  this 
direction!  By  the  way,  let  your  men  lie  down  under 
the  fallen  tree,  as  far  as  it  will  go.  It  will  protect 
them  from  others." 

Colburn  rode  back  to  his  regiment.  Waldron  looked 
impatiently  at  his  watch.  At  that  moment  a  fierce 
burst  of  line  firing  arose  in  front,  followed  and  al 
most  overborne  by  a  long-drawn  yell,  the  scream  of 
charging  men.  Waldron  put  up  his  watch,  glanced  ex 
citedly  at  Fitz  Hugh,  and  smiled. 

"  I  must  forgive  or  forget,"  the  latter  could  not 
help  saying  to  himself.  "  All  the  rest  of  life  is  nothing 
compared  with  this." 

"  Captain,"  said  Waldron,  "  ride  off  to  the  left  at  full 
speed.  As  soon  as  you  hear  firing  at  the  shoulder  of 
the  ridge,  return  instantly  and  let  me  know." 

Fitz  Hugh  dashed  away.  Three  minutes  carried 
him  into  perfect  peace,  beyond  the  whistling  of  ball 
or  the  screeching  of  shell.  On  the  right  was  a  tran 
quil,  wide  waving  of  foliage,  and  on  the  left  a  serene 
landscape  of  cultivated  fields,  with  here  and  there  an 
embowered  farmhouse.  Only  for  the  clamor  of 
artillery  and  musketry  far  behind  him,  he  could  not 
have  believed  in  the  near  presence  of  battle,  of  blood 
and  suffering  and  triumphant  death.  But  suddenly  he 
heard  to  his  right,  assaulting  and  slaughtering  the  tran 
quillity  of  nature,  a  tumultuous  outbreak  of  file-firing, 
mingled  with  savage  yells.  He  wheeled,  drove  spurs 
into  his  horse,  and  flew  back  to  Waldron.  As  he  re- 


298  MEMORIAL  DAY 

entered  the  wood  he  met  wounded  men  streaming 
through  it,  a  few  marching  alertly  upright,  many  more 
crouching  and  groaning,  some  clinging  to  their  less  in 
jured  comrades,  but  all  haggard  in  face  and  ghastly. 

"  Are  we  winning  ?  "  he  hastily  asked  of  one  man 
who  held  up  a  hand  with  three  fingers  gone  and  the 
bones  projecting  in  sharp  spikes  through  mangled  flesh. 

"  All  right,  Sir ;  sailing  in,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Is  the  brigade  commander  all  right  ?  "  he  inquired 
of  another  who  was  winding  a  bloody  handkerchief 
around  his  arm. 

4<  Straight  ahead,  Sir ;  hurrah  for  Waldron !  "  re 
sponded  the  soldier,  and  almost  in  the  same  instant 
fell  lifeless  with  a  fresh  ball  through  his  head. 

"  Hurrah  for  him !  "  Fitz  Hugh  answered  frantically, 
plunging  on  through  the  underwood.  He  found  Wal 
dron  with  Colburn,  the  two  conversing  tranquilly  in 
their  saddles  amid  hissing  bullets  and  dropping 
branches. 

"  Move  your  regiment  forward  now,"  the  brigade 
commander  was  saying ;  "  but  halt  it  in  the  edge  of  the 
wood." 

"Shan't  I  relieve  Gildersleeve  if  he  gets  beaten?'' 
asked  the  subordinate  officer  eagerly. 

"  No.  The  regiments  on  the  left  will  help  him  out. 
I  want  your  men  and  Peck's  for  the  fight  on  top  of  the 
hill.  Of  course  the  rebels  will  try  to  retake  it;  then  I 
shall  call  for  you." 

Fitz  Hugh  now  approached  and  said,  "  Colonel,  the 
Seventh  has  attacked  in  force." 

"  Good !  "  answered  Waldron,  with  that  sweet  smile 
of  his  which  thanked  people  who  brought  him  pleas- 


SELECTIONS  299 

ant  news.  "  I  thought  I  heard  his  fire.  Gahogan  will 
be  on  their  right  rear  in  ten  minutes.  Then  we  shall 
get  the  ridge.  Ride  back  now  to  Major  Bradley,  and 
tell  him  to  bring  his  Napoleons  through  the  wood,  and 
set  two  of  them  to  shelling  the  enemy's  center.  Tell 
him  my  idea  is  to  amuse  them,  and  keep  them  from 
changing  front." 

Again  Fitz  Hugh  galloped  off  as  before  on  a  com 
fortably  safe  errand,  safer  at  all  events  than  many 
errands  of  that  day.  "  This  man  is  sparing  my  life," 
he  said  to  himself.  "  Would  to  God  I  knew  how  to 
spare  his !  " 

He  found  Bradley  lunching  on  a  gun  caisson,  and 
delivered  his  orders.  "  Something  to  do  at  last,  eh  ?  " 
laughed  the  rosy-cheeked  youngster.  "  The  smallest 
favors  thankfully  received.  Won't  you  take  a  bite 
of  rebel  chicken,  Captain?  This  rebellion  must  be  put 
down.  No?  Well,  tell  the  Colonel  I  am  moving  on, 
and  John  Brown's  soul  not  far  ahead." 

When  Fitz  Hugh  returned  to  Waldron  he  found  him 
outside  of  the  wood,  at  the  base  of  the  long  incline 
which  rose  into  the  rebel  position.  About  the  slope 
were  scattered  prostrate  forms,  most  numerous  near 
the  bottom,  some  crawling  slowly  rearward,  some 
quiescent.  Under  the  brow  of  the  ridge,  decimated 
and  broken  into  a  mere  skirmish  line  sheltered  in  knots 
and  singly,  behind  rocks  and  knolls  and  bushes,  lay  the 
Fourteenth  Regiment,  keeping  up  a  steady,  slow  fire. 
From  the  edge  above,  smokily  dim  against  a  pure,  blue 
heaven,  answered  another  rattle  of  musketry,  incessant, 
obstinate,  and  spiteful.  The  combatants  on  both  sides 
were  lying  down;  otherwise  neither  party  could  have 


300  MEMORIAL  DAY 

lasted  ten  minutes.  From  Fitz  Hugh's  point  of  view 
not  a  Confederate  uniform  could  be  seen.  But  the 
smoke  of  their  rifles  made  a  long  gray  line,  which  was 
disagreeably  visible  and  permanent;  and  the  sharp 
whit!  whit!  of  their  bullets  continually  passed  him,  and 
cheeped  away  in  the  leafage  behind. 

"  Our  men  can't  get  on  another  inch,"  he  ventured 
to  say  to  his  commander.  "  Wouldn't  it  be  well  for  me 
to  ride  up  and  say  a  cheering  word  ?  " 

"  Every  battle  consists  largely  in  waiting,"  replied 
Waldron  thoughtfully.  "  They  have  undoubtedly 
brought  up  a  reserve  to  face  Thomas.  But  when 
Gahogan  strikes  the  flank  of  the  reserve,  we  shall 
win." 

"  I  wish  you  would  take  shelter,"  begged  Fitz  Hugh. 
"  Everything  depends  on  your  life." 

"  My  life  has  been  both  a  help  and  a  hurt  to  my 
fellow-creatures,"  sighed  the  brigade  commander. 
"  Let  come  what  will  to  it." 

He  glanced  upward  with  an  expression  of  profound 
emotion ;  he  was  evidently  fighting  two  battles,  an 
outward  and  an  inward  one. 

Presently,  he  added,  "  I  think  the  musketry  is  in 
creasing  on  the  left.  Does  it  strike  you  so?" 

He  was  all  eagerness  again,  leaning  forward  with  an 
air  of  earnest  listening,  his  face  deeply  flushed  and 
his  eye  brilliant.  Of  a  sudden  the  combat  above  rose 
and  swelled  into  higher  violence.  There  was  a 
clamor  far  away — it  seemed  nearly  a  mile  away — over 
the  hill.  Then  the  nearer  musketry,  first  Thomas's 
on  the  shoulder  of  the  ridge,  next  Gildersleeve's  in 
front,  caught  fire  and  raged  with  new  fury. 


SELECTIONS  301 

Waldron  laughed  outright.  "  Gahogan  has  reached 
them,"  he  said  to  one  of  his  staff  who  had  just  re 
joined  him.  "  We  shall  all  be  up  there  in  five  min 
utes.  Tell  Colburn  to  bring  on  his  regiment  slowly." 

Then,  turning  to  Fitz  Hugh,  he  added,  "  Captain, 
we  will  ride  forward." 

They  set  off  at  a  walk,  now  watching  the  smoking 
brow  of  the  eminence,  now  picking  their  way  among 
dead  and  wounded.  Suddenly  there  was  a  shout  above 
them  and  a  sudden  diminution  of  the  firing;  and 
looking  upward,  they  saw  the  men  of  the  Fourteenth 
running  confusedly  toward  the  summit.  Without  a 
word  the  brigade  commander  struck  spurs  into  his 
horse  and  dashed  up  the  long  slope  at  a  run,  closely 
followed  by  his  enemy  and  aid.  What  they  saw  when 
they  overtook  the  straggling,  running,  panting,  scream 
ing  pell-mell  of  the  Fourteenth  was  victory ! 

The  entire  right  wing  of  the  Confederates,  attacked 
on  three  sides  at  once,  placed  at  enormous  disad 
vantage,  completely  overgeneraled,  had  given  way  in 
confusion,  was  retreating,  breaking,  and  flying.  There 
were  lines  yet  of  dirty  gray  or  butternut;  but  they 
were  few,  meager,  fluctuating,  and  recoiling,  and  there 
were  scattered  and  scurrying  men  in  hundreds.  Three 
veteran  and  gallant  regiments  had  gone  all  to  wreck 
under  the  shock  of  three  similar  regiments  far  more 
intelligently  directed.  A  strong  position  had  been  lost 
because  the  heroes  who  held  it  could  not  perform  the 
impossible  feat  of  forming  successively  two  fresh 
fronts  under  a  concentric  fire  of  musketry.  The  in 
ferior  brain  power  had  confessed  the  superiority  of 
the  stronger  one. 


302  MEMORIAL  DAY 

On  the  victorious  side  there  was  wild,  clamorous, 
fierce  exultation.  The  hurrying,  shouting,  firing  sol 
diers,  who  noted  their  commander  riding  among  them, 
swung  their  rifles  or  their  tattered  hats  at  him,  and 
screamed  "  Hurrah !  "  No  one  thought  of  the  Con 
federate  dead  under  foot,  nor  of  the  Union  dead  who 
dotted  the  slope  behind.  "  What  are  you  here  for,  Col 
onel?"  shouted  rough  old  Gildersleeve,  one  leg  of  his 
trousers  dripping  blood.  "  We  can  do  it  alone." 

"  It  is  a  battle  won,"  laughed  Fitz  Hugh,  almost 
worshiping  the  man  whom  he  had  come  to  slay. 

"  It  is  a  battle  won,  but  not  used,"  answered  Wal- 
dron.  "  We  haven't  a  gun  yet,  nor  a  flag.  Where  is 
the  cavalry?  Why  isn't  Stilton  here?  He  must  have 
got  afoul  of  the  enemy's  horse,  and  been  obliged 
to  beat  it  off.  Can  anybody  hear  anything  of 
Stilton?" 

"  Let  him  go,"  roared  Old  Crumps.  "  The  infantry 
don't  want  any  help." 

"  Your  regiment  has  suffered,  Colonel,"  answered 
Waldron,  glancing  at  the  scattered  files  of  the  Four 
teenth.  "  Halt  it  and  reorganize  it,  and  let  it  fall  in 
with  the  right  of  the  First  when  Peck  comes  up.  I 
shall  replace  you  with  the  Fifth.  Send  your  Adjutant 
back  to  Colburn  and  tell  him  to  hurry  along.  Those 
fellows  are  making  a  new  front  over  there,"  he  added, 
pointing  to  the  center  of  the  hill.  "  I  want  the  Fifth, 
Seventh,  and  Tenth  in  echelon  as  quickly  as  possible. 
And  I  want  that  cavalry.  Lieutenant,"  turning  to  one 
of  his  staff,  "  ride  off  to  the  left  and  find  Colonel 
Stilton.  Tell  him  that  I  need  a  charge  in  ten 
minutes." 


SELECTIONS  303 

Presently  cannon  opened  from  that  part  of  the  ridge 
still  held  by  the  Confederates,  the  shells  tearing 
through  or  over  the  dissolving  groups  of  their  right 
wing,  and  cracking  viciously  above  the  heads  of  the 
victorious  Unionists.  The  explosions  followed  each 
other  with  stunning  rapidity,  and  the  shrill  whirring 
of  the  splinters  was  ominous.  Men  began  to  fall  again 
in  the  ranks  or  to  drop  out  of  them  wounded.  Of  all 
this  Waldron  took  no  further  note  than  to  ride  hastily 
to  the  brow  of  the  ridge  and  look  for  his  own 
artillery. 

"  See  how  he  attinds  to  iverthing  himself,"  said 
Major  Gahogan,  who  had  cantered  up  to  the  side  of 
Fitz  Hugh.  "  It's  just  a  matther  of  plain  business, 
an'  he  looks  after  it  loike  a  business  man.  Did  ye  see 
us,  though,  Captin,  whin  we  come  in  on  their  right 
flank?  By  George,  we  murthered  um.  There's 
more'n  a  hundred  lyin'  in  hapes  back  there.  As  for 
old  Stilton,  I  just  caught  sight  of  um  behind  that 
wood  to  our  left,  and  he's  makin*  for  the  enemy's 
right  rair.  He'll  have  lots  o'  prisoners  in  half  an 
hour." 

When  Waldron  returned  to  the  group  he  was  told 
of  his  cavalry's  whereabouts,  and  responded  to  the 
information  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction. 

"  Bradley  is  hurrying  up,"  he  said,  "  and  Taylor 
is  pushing  their  left  smartly.  They  will  make  one 
more  tussle  to  recover  their  line  of  retreat;  but  we 
shall  smash  them  from  end  to  end  and  take  every 
gun." 

He  galloped  now  to  his  infantry,  and  gave  the  word 
"  Forward !  "  The  three  regiments  which  composed 


304  MEMORIAL  DAY 

the  echelon  were  the  Fifth  on  the  right,  the  Seventh 
fifty  yards  to  the  rear  and  left  of  the  Fifth.  It  was 
behind  the  Fifth,  that  is,  the  foremost  battalion,  that 
the  brigade  commander  posted  himself. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  stay  here,  Colonel  ?  "  asked  Fitz 
Hugh,  in  surprise  and  anxiety. 

"  It  is  a  certain  victory  now,"  answered  Waldron, 
with  a  singular  glance  upward.  "  My  life  is  no  longer 
important.  I  prefer  to  do  my  duty  to  the  utmost  in 
the  sight  of  all  men." 

"  I  shall  follow  you  and  do  mine,  Sir,"  said  the 
Captain,  much  moved,  he  could  scarcely  say  by  what 
emotions,  they  were  so  many  and  conflicting. 

"  I  want  you  otherwheres.  Ride  to  Colonel  Taylor 
at  once,  and  hurry  him  up  the  hill.  Tell  him  the  enemy 
have  greatly  weakened  their  left.  Tell  him  to  push 
up  everything,  infantry,  and  cavalry,  and  artillery,  and 
to  do  it  in  haste." 

"  Colonel,  this  is  saving  my  life  against  my  will," 
remonstrated  Fitz  Hugh. 

"  Go !  "  ordered  Waldron,  imperiously.  "  Time  is 
precious." 

Fitz  Hugh  dashed  down  the  slope  to  the  right  at  a 
gallop.  The  brigade  commander  turned  tranquilly, 
and  followed  the  march  of  his  echelon.  The  second 
and  decisive  crisis  of  the  little  battle  was  approaching, 
and  to -understand  it  we  must  glance  at  the  ground  on 
which  it  was  to  be  fought.  Two  hostile  lines  were 
marching  toward  each  other  along  the  broad,  gently 
rounded  crest  of  the  hill,  and  at  right  angles  to  its  gen 
eral  course.  Between  these  lines,  but  much  the  near 
est  to  the  Union  troops,  a  spacious  road  came  up  out 


SELECTIONS  305 

of  the  forest  in  front,  crossed  the  ridge,  swept  down 
the  smooth  decline  in  rear,  and  led  to  a  single  wooden 
bridge  over  a  narrow  but  deep  rivulet.  On  either 
hand  the  road  was  hedged  in  by  a  close  board  fence, 
four  feet  or  so  in  height.  It  was  for  the  possession 
of  this  highway  that  the  approaching  lines  were  about 
to  shed  their  blood.  If  the  Confederates  failed  to 
win  it,  all  their  artillery  would  be  lost,  and  their  army 
captured  or  dispersed. 

The  two  parties  came  on  without  firing.  The  sol 
diers  on  both  sides  were  veterans,  cool,  obedient  to 
orders,  intelligent  through  long-  service,  and  able 
to  reserve  all  their  resources  for  a  short-range  and 
final  struggle.  Moreover,  the  fences  as  yet  par 
tially  hid  them  from  each  other,  and  would  have 
rendered  all  aim  for  the  present  vague  and  uncer 
tain. 

"  Forward,  Fifth  !  "  shouted  Waldron.  "  Steady. 
Reserve  your  fire."  Then,  as  the  regiment  came  up  to 
the  fence,  he  added,  "  Halt,  right  dress.  Steady, 
men." 

Meantime  he  watched  the  advancing  array  with 
an  eager  gaze.  It  was  a  noble  sight,  full  of  moral 
sublimity,  and  worthy  of  all  admiration.  The  long, 
lean,  sunburned,  weather-beaten  soldiers  in  ragged 
gray  stepped  forward,  superbly,  their  ranks  loose,  but 
swift  and  firm,  the  men  leaning  forward  in  their  haste, 
their  tattered  slouch  hats  pushed  backward,  their  whole 
aspect  business-like  and  virile.  Their  line  was  three 
battalions  strong,  far  outflanking  the  Fifth,  and  at  least 
equal  to  the  entire  echelon.  When  within  thirty  or 
forty  yards  of  the  further  fence  they  increased  their 


306  MEMORIAL  DAY 

pace  to  nearly  a  double-quick,  many  of  them  stooping 
low  in  hunter  fashion,  and  a  few  firing.  Then  Wal- 
dron  rose  in  his  stirrups  and  yelled,  "  Battalion !  ready 
— aim — aim  low.  Fire !  " 

There  was  a  stunning  roar  of  three  hundred  and 
fifty  rifles  and  a  deadly  screech  of  bullets.  But  the 
smoke  rolled  out,  the  haste  to  reload  was  intense,  and 
none  could  mark  what  execution  was  done.  Whatever 
the  Confederates  may  have  suffered,  they  bore  up  un 
der  the  volley,  and  they  came  on.  In  another  minute 
each  of  those  fences,  not  more  than  twenty-five  yards 
apart,  was  lined  by  the  shattered  fragments  of  a  regi 
ment,  each  firing  as  fast  as  possible  into  the  face  of 
the  other.  The  Fifth  bled  fearfully:  it  had  five  of  its 
ten  company  commanders  shot  dead  in  three  minutes; 
and  its  loss  in  other  officers  and  in  men  fell  scarcely 
short  of  this  terrific  ratio.  On  its  left  the  Seventh 
and  the  Tenth  were  up,  pouring  in  musketry,  and  re 
ceiving  it  in  a  fashion  hardly  less  sanguinary.  No  one 
present  had  ever  seen,  or  ever  afterward  saw,  such 
another  close  and  deadly  contest. 

But  the  strangest  thing  in  this  whole  wonderful  fight 
was  the  conduct  of  the  brigade  commander.  Up  and 
down  the  rear  of  the  lacerated  Fifth,  Waldron  rode 
thrice,  spurring  his  plunging  and  wounded  horse,  close 
to  the  yelling  and  fighting  file-closers,  and  shouting  in 
a  piercing  voice  encouragement  to  his  men.  Stranger 
still,  considering  the  character  which  he  had  borne  in 
the  army,  and  considering  the  evil  deed  for  which  he 
was  to  account  on  the  morrow,  were  the  words  which 
he  was  distinctly  and  repeatedly  heard  to  utter. 
"  Stand  steady,  men — God  is  with  us !  "  was  the  ex- 


SELECTIONS  307 

traordinary  battle-cry  of  this  backslidden  clergyman, 
this  sinner  above  many. 

And  it  was  a  prophecy  of  victory.  Bradley  ran  up 
his  Napoleons  on  the  right  in  the  nick  of  time,  and, 
although  only  one  of  them  could  be  brought  to  bear, 
it  was  enough;  the  grape  raked  the  Confederate  left, 
broke  it,  and  the  battle  was  over.  In  five  minutes 
more  their  whole  array  was  scattered,  and  the  entire 
position  open  to  galloping  cavalry,  seizing  guns,  stand 
ards,  and  prisoners. 

It  was  in  the  very  moment  of  triumph,  just  as  the 
stubborn  Southern  line  reeled  back  from  the  fence  in 
isolated  clusters,  that  the  miraculous  impunity  of 
Waldron  terminated,  and  he  received  his  death  wound. 
A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  Fitz  Hugh  found  a  sor 
rowful  group  of  officers  gazing  from  a  little  distance 
upon  their  dying  commander. 

"  Is  the  Colonel  hit?  "  he  asked,  shocked  and  grieved, 
incredible  as  the  emotion  may  seem. 

"  Don't  go  near  him,"  called  Gildersleeve,  who,  it 
will  be  remembered,  knew  or  guessed  his  errand  in 
camp.  "  The  Chaplain  and  surgeon  are  there.  Let 
him  alone." 

"  He's  going  to  render  his  account,"  added  Gahogan. 
"  An'  whativer  he's  done  wrong,  he's  made  it  square 
to-day.  Let  um  lave  it  to  his  brigade." 

Adjutant  Wallis,  who  had  been  blubbering  aloud, 
who  had  cursed  the  rebels  and  the  luck  energetically, 
and  who  had  also  been  trying  to  pray  inwardly, 
groaned  out,  "  This  is  our  last  victory.  You  see  if  it 
ain't.  Bet  you  two  to  one." 

"  Hush,  man,"  replied  Gahogan.     "  We'll  win  our 


308  MEMORIAL  DAY 

share  of  um,  though  we'll  have  to  work  harder  for  it. 
We'll  have  to  do  more  ourselves,  an'  get  less  done  for 
us  in  the  way  of  tactics." 

"  That  so,  Major,"  whimpered  a  drummer,  looking 
up  from  his  duty  of  attending  to  a  wounded  comrade. 
"  He  knowed  how  to  put  his  men  in  the  right  place, 
and  his  men  knowed  when  they  was  in  the  right  place. 
But  it's  goin'  to  be  uphill  through  the  steepest  part  of 
hell  the  rest  of  the  way." 

Soldiers,  some  of  them  weeping,  some  of  them 
bleeding,  arrived  constantly  to  inquire  after  their  com 
mander,  only  to  be  sent  quietly  back  to  their  ranks  or 
to  the  rear.  Around  lay  other  men — dead  men,  and 
senseless,  groaning  men — all  for  the  present  unnoticed. 
Everything,  except  the  distant  pursuit  of  the  cavalry, 
waited  for  Waldron  to  die.  Fitz  Hugh  looked  on 
silently,  with  the  tears  of  mingled  emotions  in  his  eyes, 
and  with  hopes  and  hatreds  expiring  in  his  heart.  The 
surgeon  supported  the  expiring  victor's  head,  while 
Chaplain  Colquhoun  knelt  beside  him,  holding  his  hand 
and  praying  audibly.  Of  a  sudden  the  petition  ceased, 
both  bent  hastily  toward  the  wounded  man,  and  after 
what  seemed  a  long  time  exchanged  whispers.  Then 
the  Chaplain  rose,  came  slowly  toward  the  now  ad 
vancing  group  of  officers,  his  hands  outspread  toward 
heaven  in  an  attitude  of  benediction,  and  tears  running 
down  his  haggard  white  face. 

"  I  trust,  dear  friends,"  he  said,  in  a  tremu 
lous  voice,  "  that  all  is  well  with  our  brother  and 
commander.  His  last  words  were,  '  God  is  with 
us/  " 

"  Oh!  but,  man,  that  isn't  well,"  broke  out  Gahogan, 


SELECTIONS  309 

in  a  groan.     "What  did  ye  pray  for  his  sowl  for? 
Why  didn't  ye  pray  for  his  loif e  ?  " 

Fitz  Hugh  turned  his  horse  and  rode  silently  away. 
The  next  day  he  was  seen  journeying  rearward  by  the 
side  of  an  ambulance,  within  which  lay  what  seemed 
a  strangely  delicate  boy,  insensible,  and,  one  would 
say,  mortally  ill. 


A  STORY  OF  DECORATION  DAY  FOR  THE 
LITTLE  CHILDREN  OF  TO-DAY  1 

BY  ELIZABETH  HARRISON 

I  want  you  to  listen  to  a  sad,  sweet  story  to-day,  and 
yet  one  that  ought  to  make  you  glad — glad  that  such 
men  have  lived  as  those  of  whom  I  am  going  to  tell 
you.  It  all  happened  a  good  many  years  ago,  in  fact 
so  long  ago  that  your  fathers  and  mothers  were  little 
boys  and  girls  in  kilts  and  pinafores,  some  of  them 
mere  babies  in  long  clothes. 

One  bright  Sunday  morning  in  April  the  telegraph 
wires  could  be  heard  repeating  the  same  things  all  over 
the  land,  "  Tic,  tic,  tictic ;  t-i-c ;  tic,  tictic ; — tic,  t-i-c,  tic ; 
t-i-c ;  tic,  t-i-c ;  t-i-c,  t-i-c,  tic,"  they  called  out,  and  the 
drowsy  telegraph  operators  sat  up  in  their  chairs  as  if 
startled  by  the  words  the  wires  were  saying. 

;<  Tic,  t-i-c ;  tic ;  tictic ;  tic,  tictic ;  tic,  t-i-c,  tictic ; — 
tic,  tic ;  t-i-c,  tic,"  continued  the  wires,  and  the  faces  of 

'From  "In  Story  Land."  Sigma  Publishing  Co.,  St. 
Louis,  Mo. 


310  MEMORIAL  DAY 

the  telegraph  operators  grew  pale.  Any  looker-on 
could  have  seen  that  something  dreadful  was  being  told 
by  the  wires. 

"  Tic,  t-i-c,  tic ;  tictic ;  tic,  tictic ;  tic ;  t-i-c,  tictic ; — tic, 
tic;  t-i-c,  tic,"  again  repeated  the  wires.  There  was 
no  mistaking  the  message  this  time.  Alas,  alas,  it  was 
true !  The  terrible  news  was  true !  Even  the  bravest 
among  the  operators  trembled. 

Then  came  the  rapid  writing  out  of  the  fearful  words 
that  the  slender  wires  had  uttered,  the  hurrying  to  and 
fro;  the  messenger  boys  were  seen  flying  to  the  great 
newspaper  offices,  and  the  homes  of  the  mayors  of  the 
cities,  and  to  the  churches  where  already  the  people 
were  beginning  to  assemble.  For  the  deep-toned  Sab 
bath  church  bells  high  up  in  the  steeples  had  been  ring 
ing  out  their  welcome  to  all,  even  the  strangers  in 
their  midst — "  Bim !  Baum !  Bim !  "  they  sang,  which 
everybody  knew  meant,  "  Come  to  church,  dear  people ! 
Come !  Come !  Come !  "  And  the  people  strolled 
leisurely  along  toward  the  churches, — fathers  and 
mothers  and  little  ones,  and  even  grandfathers  and 
grandmothers.  It  was  such  a  bright,  pleasant  day 
that  it  seemed  a  joy  to  go  to  the  house  of  God  and 
thank  Him  for  all  His  love  and  care.  So  one  family 
after  another  filed  into  their  pews  while  the  organist 
played  such  soft,  sweet  music  that  everybody  felt 
soothed  and  quieted  by  it. 

Little  did  they  dream  of  the  awful  words  which  the 
telegraph  wires  were  at  that  very  moment  calling  out 
with  their  "Tic,  t-i-c,  tic;  t-i-c;  tic,  t-i-c;  t-i-c;  t-i-c, 
tic ; — tic,  t-i-c,  tic,  tictic,  tic,  tictic ;  tic,  t-i-c ;  tictic.'* 

The  clergymen  came  in  and  took  their  places  in  the 


SELECTIONS  311 

pulpits.  In  each  church  the  organ  ceased  its  wordless 
song  of  praise.  The  congregation  bowed  and  silently 
joined  with  all  their  hearts  in  the  petitions  which  the 
clergyman  was  offering  to  the  dear  Lord,  Father  of  all 
mankind,  Ruler  of  heaven  and  earth.  Some  of  them 
softly  whispered  "  Amen  "  as  he  asked  protection  for 
their  homes  and  their  beloved  country.  Did  they  know 
anything  about  the  danger  which  even  then  hung  over 
them?  Perhaps  they  did. 

In  many  of  the  churches  the  prayer  was  over,  the 
morning  hymn  had  been  sung,  when  a  stir  and  bustle 
at  the  door  might  have  been  noticed,  as  the  messenger 
boys,  excited  and  out  of  breath,  handed  their  yellow 
envelopes  to  the  ushers  who  stood  near  the  door  ready 
to  show  the  late  comers  to  unoccupied  seats.  First 
one  and  then  the  other  ushers  read  the  message,  and 
from  some  one  of  them  escaped  in  a  hushed  whisper, 
the  words,  "  Oh  God !  Has  it  come  to  this !  " 

And  all  looked  white  and  awe-struck.  The  head 
usher  hurried  tremblingly  down  the  aisle,  and  without 
waiting  for  the  clergyman  to  finish  reading  the  an 
nouncements  of  the  week,  laid  the  telegram  upon  the 
pulpit  desk. 

The  clergyman,  somewhat  surprised  at  such  an  inter 
ruption,  glanced  at  the  paper,  stopped,  gasped,  picked 
it  up,  and  reread  the  words  written  upon  it,  as  though 
he  could  not  believe  his  own  eyes.  Then  he  advanced 
a  step  forward,  holding  on  to  the  desk,  as  if  he  had 
been  struck  a  blow  by  some  unseen  hand.  The  con 
gregation  knew  that  something  terrible  had  happened, 
and  their  hearts  seemed  to  stop  beating  as  they  leaned 
forward  to  catch  his  words. 


312  MEMORIAL  DAY 

"  My  people,"  said  he  in  a  slow,  deliberate  tone,  as 
if  it  were  an  effort  to  steady  his  voice,  "  I  hold  in  my 
hand  a  message  from  the  President  of  the  United 
States."  Then  his  eyes  dropped  to  the  paper  which  he 
still  held,  and  now  his  voice  rang  out  clear  and  loud  as 
he  read,  "  Our  Flag  has  been  fired  upon!  Seventy-five 
thousand  troops  wanted  at  once.  Abraham  Lincoln." 

I  could  not  make  you  understand  all  that  took  place 
the  next  week  or  two  any  more  than  the  little  children 
who  heard  what  the  telegram  said,  'understood  it. 
Men  came  home,  hurried  and  excited,  to  hunt  up  law 
papers,  or  to  straighten  out  deeds,  saying  in  con 
strained  tones  to  the  pale-faced  women,  "  I  will  try 
to  leave  all  business  matters  straight  before  I  go." 
There  was  solemn  consultations  between  husbands  and 
wives,  which  usually  ended  in  the  father's  going  out, 
stern-faced  and  silent,  and  the  mother,  dry-eyed  but 
with  quivering  lips,  seeking  her  own  room,  locking  her 
self  in  for  an  hour,  then  coming  out  to  the  wondering 
children  with  a  quiet  face,  but  with  eyes  that  showed 
she  had  been  weeping.  There  were  gatherings  in  the 
town  halls  and  in  the  churches  and  school  houses  all 
over  the  land.  The  newspapers  were  read  hurriedly 
and  anxiously. 

And  when  little  Robert  looked  up  earnestly  into  his 
Grandmamma's  face  and  asked,  "  Why  does  Mamma 
not  eat  her  breakfast  ?  "  Grandmamma  replied,  "  Your 
Papa  is  going  away,  my  dear ;"  and  when  little  Robert 
persisted  by  saying,  "  But  Papa  goes  to  New  York 
every  year,  and  Mamma  does  not  sit  and  stare  out  of 
the  window,  and  forget  to  eat  her  breakfast."  Then 


SELECTIONS  313 

Mamma  would  turn  solemnly  around  and  say,  "  Robert, 
my  boy,  Papa  is  going  to  the  war,  and  may  never  come 
back  to  us.  But  you  and  I  must  be  brave  about  it 
and  help  him  get  ready."  And  if  Robert  answered, 
"  Why  is  he  going  to  the  war?  Why  does  he  not  stay 
at  home  with  us  ?  Doesn't  he  love  us  any  more  ?  " 
then  Mamma  would  draw  her  boy  to  her  and,  putting 
her  arms  around  him,  and  looking  into  his  eyes,  she 
would  say,  "  Yes,  my  darling,  he  loves  us,  but  he  must 
go.  Our  country  needs  him,  and  you  and  I  must  be 
proud  that  he  is  ready  to  do  his  duty."  Then  Robert 
would  go  away  to  his  play,  wondering  what  it  all 
meant,  just  as  you  would  have  wondered  if  you  had 
been  there. 

Soon  the  Papas  and  Uncles,  and  even  some  of  the 
Grandfathers,  put  on  soldiers'  uniforms,  and  drilled  in 
the  streets  with  guns  over  their  shoulders,  and  bands 
of  music  played  military  music,  and  the  drums  beat, 
and  crowds  of  people  collected  on  the  street  corners, 
and  there  were  more  speeches,  and  more  flags,  and 
banners,  and  stir,  and  excitement.  And  nothing  else 
was  talked  of  but  the  war,  the  war,  the  terrible  war. 

Then  came  the  marching  away  of  the  soldiers  to  the 
railway  stations,  and  then  the  farewells  and  cheers  and 
waving  of  handkerchiefs  and  the  playing  of  patriotic 
airs  by  the  bands  of  music,  and  much  more  confusion 
and  excitement  and  good-by  kisses  and  tears  than  I 
could  tell  you  of. 

Then  came  the  long,  long  days  of  waiting  and  pray 
ing  in  the  homes  to  which  fathers  and  brothers  no 
longer  came,  and  silent  watching  for  letters,  and 


314  MEMORIAL  DAY 

anxious  opening  of  the  newspapers,  and  oftentimes  the 
little  children  felt  their  Mamma's  tears  drop  on  their 
faces  as  she  kissed  them  good-night — their  dear 
Mamma  who  so  often  had  sung  them  to  sleep  with 
her  gay,  happy  songs, — what  did  it  all  mean?  They 
could  not  tell. 

And  all  this  time  the  fathers,  brave  men  as  they 
were,  had  been  marching  down  to  the  war.  Often 
times  they  slept  on  the  hard  ground  with  only  their 
army  blankets  wrapped  around  them,  and  the  stars  to 
keep  watch  over  them,  and  many  a  day  they  had 
nothing  to  eat  but  dry  bread  and  black  coffee,  because 
they  had  not  time  to  cook  more,  and  sometimes  they 
had  no  breakfast  at  all  because  they  must  be  up  by 
daybreak  and  march  on,  even  if  the  rain  poured  down, 
as  it  sometimes  did,  wetting  them  through  and 
through.  What  were  such  hardships  when  their  coun 
try  was  in  danger? 

Then  came  the  terrible,  terrible  battles,  more  awful 
than  anything  you  ever  dreamed  of.  Men  were  shot 
down  by  the  thousands,  and  many  who  did  not  lose 
their  lives  had  a  leg  shot  off,  or  an  arm  so  crushed 
that  it  had  to  be  cut  off.  Still  they  bravely  struggled 
on.  It  was  for  their  beloved  country  they  were  fight 
ing,  and  for  it  they  must  be  willing  to  suffer,  or  to  die. 

Then  a  hundred  thousand  more  soldiers  were  called 
for,  and  then  another  hundred  thousand,  and  still  the 
bloody  war  continued.  For  four  long  years  it  lasted, 
and  the  whole  world  looked  on,  amazed  at  such  cour 
age  and  endurance. 

Then  the  men  who  had  not  been  killed,  or  who  had 


SELECTIONS  315 

not  died  of  their  sufferings,  came  marching  home  again, 
many,  alas,  on  crutches,  and  many  who  knew  that  they 
were  disabled  for  life.  But  they  had  saved  their  coun 
try!  And  that  was  reward  enough  for  their  heroic 
hearts.  Though  many  a  widow  turned  her  sad  face 
away  when  the  crowd  welcomed  the  returning  soldiers, 
for  she  knew  that  her  loved  one  was  not  with  them, 
and  many  little  children  learned  in  time  that  their  dear 
fathers  would  never  return  to  them. 

War  is  such  a  terrible  thing  that  it  makes  one's 
heart  ache  to  think  of  it. 

Then  by  and  by  the  people  said,  "  Our  children  must 
grow  up  loving  and  honoring  the  heroic  men  who  gave 
their  lives  for  their  country."  So  in  villages  and 
towns,  and  cities,  monuments  were  built  in  honor  of 
the  men  who  died  fighting  for  their  country.  And  one 
day  each  year  was  set  apart  to  keep  fresh  and  green 
the  memory  of  the  brave  soldiers,  and  it  has  been 
named  "  DECORATION  DAY,"  because  on  this  day 
all  the  children,  all  over  the  land,  are  permitted  to  go 
to  the  graves  of  the  dead  soldiers  and  place  flowers 
upon  them. 


THE  FIRE  REKINDLED  * 

BY   CLAIRE   WALLACE   FLYNN 

The  rat-a-tat  of  the  drums  and  the  dauntless  voice 
of  the  fife  began  to  awaken  the  quiet  streets  early  in 

1  From   Lippincott's  Magazine,  January- June,    1907. 


316  MEMORIAL  DAY 

the  morning.  Little  bands  of  Grand  Army  men,  stray 
cavalry  squads,  ambitious  patriotic  citizens  on  the  way 
to  their  armories  to  don  their  military  dress,  crossed 
and  recrossed  the  city,  all  bent  on  being  early  at  the 
starting-point  of  the  Memorial  Day  parade. 

Adam  Roth,  brought  to  his  window  by  the  insistent 
call  of  the  fifes,  raised  his  eyes  to  the  cloudless  blue 
of  the  spring  sky  and  then  let  them  shift  back  uneasily 
to  his  shabby  room. 

He  was  old.  He  was  poor.  The  strength  of  his 
life  was  gone.  His  whole  personality  marked  him  as 
a  failure,  a  failure  that  had  taken  the  honest  man-to 
man  look  from  his  eyes  and  left  only  a  wavering, 
frightened,  almost  crafty  glance  in  its  stead.  His  bent 
shoulders  had  long  ago  given  up  their  effort  to  square 
themselves  against  the  world,  and  the  knotted  hand 
that  smoothed  back  his  thin  gray  hair  trembled  dis 
tressingly. 

As  the  sounds  died  away,  Adam  went  and  stood 
beside  the  bed.  On  it  was  laid  the  full  uniform  of  a 
Zouave,  discolored  with  the  smoke  of  many  battles, 
ragged  and  worn  with  the  stress  of  weary  marches. 
Near  one  shoulder  a  faded  stain  spoke  of  a  wound  re 
ceived  at  Alexandria. 

Adam  looked  long  on  this  uniform,  and  then,  brush 
ing  away  a  mist  from  before  his  eyes,  he  whispered 
the  name  "  Dan !  "  as  he  sat  down  beside  the  clothes 
and  passed  his  hand  over  them  with  a  caressing 
touch. 

No,  Dan  would  wear  them  no  more.  Dan,  the  brave 
brother  who  had  first  donned  them  in  '61,  who  had 
with  unabated  love  and  energy  and  pride  worn  them 


SELECTIONS  317 

on  every  Memorial  Day  since  the  first,  had  gone  to  the 
great  "  Assembly,"  and  only  Adam  was  left. 

And  Adam !  There  was  no  part  for  him  in  all  these 
half  pleasant,  half  sad  reunions,  these  enthusiastic 
parades  through  the  great  city,  these  glorious  awaken 
ings  of  memories  of  deeds  well  done  in  the  past.  That 
was  what  ate  into  his  soul  and  blotted  out  the  light  in 
his  face.  He  had  been  a  coward — coward!  In  those 
days,  when  the  uniform  before  him  had  been  a  bright 
red,  and  the  gun,  leaning  against  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
had  sparkled  and  shone,  he  had  failed  to  answer  the 
bugle  call  of  his  country.  He  had  seen  his  brother 
volunteer,  imbued  with  the  spirit  that  creates  heroes, 
but  he  himself  had  felt  the  black  hand  of  fear  clutch 
his  heart  and  strike  at  the  very  roots  of  his  life. 
What  use  to  fight  against  that  name  of  "  coward  " ! 
In  truth,  he  had  not  fought;  he  had  let  it  sweep  over 
him,  engulf  him,  ruin  him. 

Again  the  rat-a-tat  of  the  drums.  The  man  on  the 
bed  lifted  his  head.  Oh,  to  feel  just  once  Dan's  sim 
ple  love  for  his  flag,  the  glow  of  patriotism,  the  thrill 
of  war  that  trembled  a  faint,  hallowed  echo  on  this 
day!  To  feel,  if  such  were  possible,  all  these  things 
that  had  been  denied  him  in  his  youth — just  to  feel 
them  once  before  he  too  went  to  that  dim  place  where 
the  Stars  and  Stripes  and  all  the  other  banners  of 
the  world  are  furled  in  everlasting  peace ! 

The  sounds  in  the  street  below  grew  louder,  and 
the  sun  streamed  into  the  room,  sending  a  sudden  riot 
to  Adam's  heart.  The  veins  in  his  temples  throbbed 
like  ceaseless  threshing  machines,  separating  all  the 
chaff  of  his  long  life  of  failure  and  cowardice  from 


3i8  MEMORIAL  DAY 

this  strange,  burning  prayer  that  sprang  up  within 
him,  that  he  might  once,  only  once,  go  forth  in  the  uni 
form  of  the  country  he  loved,  to  march  behind  the  flag 
he  had  failed  to  protect,  to  be  an  American  soldier ! 

He  found  himself  taking  off  his  coat  with  shaking 
hands,  and,  almost  before  he  realized  it,  he  was  hur 
rying  into  the  uniform,  talking  to  himself,  and  it,  the 
while,  in  frightened  whispers. 

"  There,  now,  Dan's  gone,  but  you  shall  go  out  into 
the  sunlight  as  you  always  have,  and  the  people  will 
cheer  when  you  come  along."  He  was  having  a  great 
deal  of  trouble  with  the  rusty  old  leggings,  but  he  got; 
them  on  at  last. 

"  And  I  shall  be  there,  marching  in  Dan's  place. 
They  will  never  know,  nobody  will  know — but  I  shall 
be  there  where  I  should  have  been  long  ago,  with  the 
men  who  were  brave  in  their  youth,  and  who  fought 
for  their  flag — their  flag.  Oh,  my  God!  I  love  it  as 
much  as  they  did !  " 

He  dusted  the  moth-eaten  fez  and  put  it  on  his 
head.  The  worn  tassel  fell  over  his  ear,  and  he  tossed 
it  back  with  a  new,  free  fling  of  his  head.  The  mantle 
of  Dan  seemed  truly  to  have  fallen  upon  him,  bringing 
with  it  the  spirit  of  '61. 

He  went  down  into  the  street,  Dan's  rifle  across  his 
shoulder,  his  Zouave  jacket  lending  strength  and  erect- 
ness  to  his  weary  back. 

A  man  leading  two  little  boys  by  the  hand  pointed 
him  out  to  the  children.  "  There  goes  one  of  those 
grizzly  old  fighters,  boys.  I  tell  you  they  did  great 
work !  "  The  words  reached  Adam,  and  sent  a  gleam 
to  his  eyes. 


SELECTIONS  319 

The  streets  were  becoming  crowded.  He  threaded 
his  way  among  the  people,  conscious  of  the  looks  that 
were  cast  toward  him,  the  small  boys  that  followed  at 
his  heels,  adoring  and  reverent.  He  had  no  shame 
because  of  his  masquerade.  He  had  no  wish  to  de 
fraud.  It  was  simply  that  now,  at  this  late  day,  he 
felt  he  must  don  the  badge  of  his  country's  service. 

He  hurried  on,  not  knowing  where  he  was  going. 

"  I've  made  a  mistake !  "  he  cried  to  himself.  "  I've 
made  a  mistake!  Every  boy  in  those  days  may  have 
had  his  moment  of  fear,  of  weakness.  Even  Dan  may 
have  known  this  moment.  But  I  believed  I  must  be  a 
coward,  I  never  tried  to  conquer  my  dread,  my  terror, 
at  the  thought  of  going  into  battle.  Now  I  see  that 
it  was  a  mistake.  My  life  is  gone,  my  opportunity  is 
lost,  but  I  want  to  march  behind  the  flag  just  once,  I 
want  to " 

He  never  knew  how  far  he  had  walked  when  sud 
denly,  at  the  corner  of  a  street,  he  was  brought  to  a 
stop  by  a  compact  body  of  people.  He  started  to  push 
his  way  through,  and  the  crowd  fell  back  a  little  at 
sight  of  his  uniform.  A  policeman  came  and  helped 
make  a  path  for  him  to  the  outer  edge  of  the  crowd. 

Then  he  knew  where  he  was.  He  saw  the  lines  of 
silent  people  on  each  side  of  the  avenue,  and  the  crash 
of  a  military  band  sounded  in  his  ears.  The  parade 
was  passing.  He  stood  for  a  long  time  and  watched 
it.  A  space,  a  lull,  then  a  fife-and-drum  corps  swung 
up  the  avenue.  Adam  grasped  his  gun  with  nervous, 
tense  ringers.  The  men  wore  the  familiar  baggy  red 
trousers,  the  short  jacket,  the  jaunty  little  cap.  The 
drums  had  passed.  The  thinning  lines  of  veterans 


320  MEMORIAL  DAY 

followed,  some  out  of  step,  some  lame,  some  white 
and  feeble,  some  with  empty  sleeves  dangling  at  their 
sides.  Rusty,  dusty,  and  old  they  marched  along, 
and  in  their  midst  the  flags,  nothing  but  shreds  and 
strings  of  silk,  riddled  and  shot  away  until  only  a  few 
brave  ribbons  remained  clinging  to  their  staffs.  Hats 
were  lifted  as  they  passed,  hearts  swelled  and  trem 
bled,  and  above  "  When  Johnny  Comes  Marching 
Home  "  rose  a  cheer  that  held  in  its  depths  that  great 
anthem  that  rises  in  our  breasts  for  those  who  have 
done  their  duty  wherever  they  have  seen  it,  under  any 
flag,  for  any  principle,  so  long  as  they  had  such  love 
and  faith  that  they  would  lay  down  their  lives  for  it, 
if  need  be. 

The  cheers  lasted,  the  straggling  ranks  went  on. 
They  were  the  Zouaves. 

With  one  great  throb  of  his  heart  Adam  stepped 
into  the  street  and  swung  into  line. 

On  and  on!  How  natural  it  seemed  to  keep  step 
to  that  simple  call  of  the  fife,  that  short  command  of 
the  drum!  The  rifle  grew  light  upon  Adam's  shoul 
der.  He  was  on  the  end  of  the  line.  The  man  next  to 
him  glanced  in  his  direction,  and  his  face  whitened. 

Dan  Roth !  Surely  old  Dan  Roth  was  dead !  The 
whole  post  had  heard  of  it  nearly  a  year  ago.  Who, 
then,  was  this  silent,  mysterious  figure,  springing  sud 
denly  from  the  crowd  and  joining  them?  Who  was 
this  old,  pale  Zouave  who  had  Dan's  form,  Dan's  head, 
with  his  long,  thin  locks;  Dan's  features — save  for  a 
strange,  unreal  expression?  Was  he  himself  so  near 
the  solving  of  the  Great  Mystery  that  this  silent  mes 
senger  was  already  at  his  elbow  ?  The  veteran,  under 


SELECTIONS  321 

the  influence  of  a  strange  fear,  moved  farther  from 
Adam. 

On  they  went.  The  rhythm  of  marching  feet,  the 
stirring  music,  the  fluttering  handkerchiefs,  and  the 
ripple  of  applause  all  lent  their  enchantment  to  this 
stolen  hour.  Adam  Roth's  years  were  dropping  from 
him ;  his  eyes  flashed  with  the  long-denied  fire  of  en 
thusiasm. 

The  parade  seemed  to  halt.  He  glanced  at  the  man 
next  to  him  to  seek  the  reason  when  the  order  for 
"  Rest !  "  rang  down  the  street.  He  let  his  gun  rattle 
to  the  pavement,  and  tightened  his  red  sash  a  little. 
There  was  something  so  real  in  this  jesture,  some 
thing  so  human  in  the  way  he  mopped  his  forehead, 
that  his  neighbor  came  closer  to  him. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  asked  the  man. 

Adam  wavered  a  moment  before  he  answered.  The 
simple  query  blotted  out  his  cherished  dream ;  perhaps 
it  would  make  the  continuance  of  his  march  impossi 
ble.  But  finally  he  turned  and  answered : 

"  Dan  Roth's  brother." 

Suddenly  he  felt  the  silent  encouragement  of  a  hand 
shake.  The  veteran  meant  to  be  his  friend.  Again 
the  command  of  "  Forward  march !  "  came  to  them, 
and  they  were  off  once  more,  this  time  flashing  warm, 
triumphant,  into  Riverside  Drive.  The  long  march 
would  soon  be  over  now.  They  were  to  stop  at  the 
Soldiers'  Monument  for  Memorial  Day  exercises,  the 
Zouaves  to  constitute  a  guard  of  honor.  The  old  sol 
dier  next  to  him  had  told  him  this. 

The  rest  seemed  unreal,  more  unreal  even  than  all 
that  had  gone  before,  but  finally  Adam  found  himself 


322  MEMORIAL  DAY 

on  the  approach  to  the  monument,  with  his  eyes  divided 
between  the  sparkling  river  that  flowed  past  him  to  the 
bay,  and  the  sea  of  faces  that  swayed  below  him. 

He  heard  the  speaker  of  the  day,  a  bronzed  old  gen 
eral,  begin  his  oration.  He  heard  the  flights  of 
eulogistic  praise  for  those  who  had  fought  on  both 
sides  of  the  great  conflict — words  all  spelling  the  name 
of  "  Dan  " ;  words  meant  for  every  man  there  but  him 
self — a  coward,  who  even  here  at  the  very  last  was 
proving  himself  an  impostor. 

Beside  him  stood  the  color-bearer,  holding  aloft  the 
tattered  glory  of  the  regiment.  It  seemed  that  the 
poor  shreds  of  silk  had  twined  themselves  tenderly 
around  his  heart  in  divine  forgiveness  for  his  denial 
of  them  in  the  days  gone  by.  The  words  of  the 
orator  floated  on  the  quivering  air,  and  the  cannon 
boomed  from  the  gunboat  in  the  river;  but  all  sounds 
now  seemed  to  come  to  Adam  from  a  great  distance. 
He  was  aflame  with  the  spirit  of  devotion;  the  dark 
ened  lamp  of  patriotism  had  been  lighted  anew  in  him, 
and  in  the  whole  world  there  was  nothing  else.  He 
dimly  wondered  if  everyone  felt  as  he.  It  seemed  that 
they  must;  there  could  be  no  one  now  in  this  broad 
land  who  did  not  feel  the  thrill  of  the  moment. 

Presently  Adam's  kindling  eyes  fell  upon  a  man 
among  the  crowd  of  spectators,  a  man  whose  haggard 
face  and  twitching  body  marked  him  apart.  Rage, 
wild,  unreasoning  rage  at  fate,  cried  out  from  all  his 
features.  The  collar  tightened  up  about  his  throat, 
and  the  hat  half  pulled  down  over  his  forehead,  gave 
him  a  sinister  look.  With  some  fascination  Adam 
noticed  that  his  eyes,  too,  were  fastened  upon  the  flag, 


SELECTIONS  323 

or  all  that  was  left  of  it.  But  what  a  gaze !  In  the 
tortured  fastness  of  his  heart  Adam  knew  that  he  had 
never  looked  on  it  as  did  this  man.  He  had  failed, 
trembled,  tried  to  draw  his  eyes  away  where  he  could 
not  see  its  tingling  red,  its  unsullied  blue,  its  accusing 
stars  that  gazed  down  on  him  and  saw  only  a 
dastard.  But  this  man!  His  glance  was  a  menace, 
his  look  burnt  with  the  hatred  of  one  whose  hand  is 
forever  set  against  the  insignia  of  law  and  loyalty. 
Adam  had  heard  of  men  of  this  kind.  Some  of  them 
had  even  tried  to  draw  him,  poor  failure  that  he  was, 
into  their  ranks,  but  he  had  been  too  timid  to  join  them. 
To-day,  however,  he  was  a  soldier,  a  Zouave,  a  guard 
of  honor,  a  defender  of  the  flag  against  just  such 
enemies  as  these. 

The  ceremonies  were  drawing  to  a  close.  The  silent 
heroes  in  blue  and  gray  had  had  their  measure  of 
praise  meted  out  to  them,  when  a  bugler  stepped  for 
ward  and  played  the  first  bar  of  the  "  Star  Spangled 
Banner."  There  was  a  shout,  a  sudden  concerted 
movement  of  the  crowd  to  get  a  little  nearer  the 
bugler,  as  the  long  notes  rang  out.  From  his  higher 
place  Adam  saw  the  man  whom  he  had  been  watching 
push  his  way  to  the  edge  of  the  crowd,  directly  facing 
the  flag.  His  face  was  darker  than  ever,  with  an  im 
measurable  hatred.  He  sneered  as  he  looked  at  the 
Zouaves  standing  gaunt  and  rugged  about  the  great 
monument  that  had  been  raised  to  the  memory  of  their 
brothers.  The  people  were  singing  now.  The  man 
laughed.  Above  the  voice  of  palpitating  youth  and 
earnest  age  Adam  heard  it,  and  clenched  his  hand  at 
his  side.  What  did  this  man  mean  to  do?  Such  wild- 


324  MEMORIAL  DAY 

ness,  such  enmity,  would  not  go  unsatisfied.  The 
man's  hand  went  to  his  pocket.  Adam  stood  tense, 
watching  his  every  movement.  Again  the  man  looked 
at  the  flag — the  flag  that  was  almost  shot  away,  the 
flag  that  perhaps  the  man  argued  had  been  carried 
aloft  on  the  battlefield  at  a  frightful  and  needless  cost, 
while  a  calm  government  sat  back  and  said,  "  Let  the 
slaughter  go  on."  Was  that,  questioned  Adam,  that 
the  man  was  thinking?  Adam  took  a  step  nearer  the 
standard-bearer,  whose  dim  eyes  were  ignorant  of 
danger.  Adam  seemed  to  feel  in  some  intuitive  way 
what  this  poor,  frantic  creature  below  meant  to  do. 
But  he  must  not  be  allowed  to  do  it — he  must  not! 
Those  smoky,  stained  old  shreds  of  silk  must  not 
feel  a  wound  from  the  hand  of  a  disloyal  son. 

The  man's  arm  shot  out.  Something  gleamed  in  the 
sunshine,  something  sang  in  the  air  above  the  words 
"  in  triumph  shall  wave,"  and  an  old  Zouave  stumbled 
and  fell  forward  upon  the  white  stones. 

The  wild  disorder  of  a  moment  was  soon  quelled. 
A  line  of  red-capped  soldiers  were  drawn  around  the 
base  of  the  monument.  A  little  group  moved  toward 
the  standard-bearer,  who  stood  looking  down  at  the 
prostrate  figure  at  his  feet,  not  forgetting  that  he  was 
still  on  duty. 

The  commander  of  the  post  stooped  over  the  fallen 
man  and  lifted  his  head.  The  man  was  a  stranger 
to  him.  He  looked  at  a  Zouave  standing  near,  silently 
questioning  him. 

"  He  pushed  in  front  of  Peterson,  sir,  just  as  that 
scoundrel  fired.  He  tried  to  grasp  the  flag,  sir.  I 
guess  he  saw  what  the  fellow  aimed  at." 


SELECTIONS  325 

Still  the  commander  looked  at  the  speaker,  the  man 
who  had  marched  all  the  way  beside  Adam. 

"Who  is  he?"  continued  the  officer.  "And  what 
is  he  doing  here?  He  is  not  one  of  my  men." 

The  old  Zouave  took  his  ragged  cap  from  his  head. 

"  He  was  Dan  Roth's  brother.  We  have  all  heard 
of  him — he  was  the  boy  who  wouldn't  join  in  '61.  But 
to-day  he — he " 

The  old  man  knelt  down  beside  Adam.  Just  below 
the  dim  stain  on  the  shoulder  of  Dan's  jacket,  the  stain 
which  marked  that  day  at  Alexandria,  there  was  a  new, 
fresh  one.  The  heart  that  lay  beneath  it  was  at  peace. 


MEMORIAL   DAY  1898 

The  days  are  dead  of  bitter  fray,  of  red  despair  and  black 

distress; 
The  blessed  years  speed  on  their  way,  the  years  that  bring 

forgetfulness. 
Awhile  the  livid  scars  we  note  of  biting  sword  and  rending 

shot, 
Awfi-ile  there  rises  in  the  throat  the  sob  for  those  who  heed 

it  not; 
Awhile  the  remnant  still  we  see  that  lessens  with  the  seasons' 

round, 
And   then — how  long   till   they  and  we  are   unremembered, 

underground? 

Lights  out!  The  tragedy  is  done;  the  curtain  falls;  the  play 
ers  cease 

Their  warlike  parts,  and  here  begun  behold  the  Passion-Play 
•  of  Peace! 

Reveille  sound!  New  pageants  come;  new  war-worn  knights 
are  marching  home: 

With  trumpets'  blare  and  roll  of  drums,  a  triumph  'tis  of 
ancient  Rome. 

Yet  surely  'tis  a  little  thing  and  meet  to  do,  so,  while  we 
may, 

Let  us  bow  down  remembering  a  Mother  mourns  her  lost 
to-day. 

What  though  the  word  from  Eastern  isles  tells  that  her  new 
est  ministers 

Have  won  fresh  battles?  Tho'  she  smiles  on  those,  these 
too — these  too  are  hers! 

Here  at  the  revel's  highest  tide,  before  the  conquered  over 
seas, 

She  pauses,  pale,  to  turn  aside  and  cast  one  flower  more  for 
these. 

Yea,  all  are  hers — and  what  a  host!  Through  half  the  world 
they  mark  her  way, 

Or  bleaching  on  the  China  coast,  or  torn  and  toss'd  in  South 
ern  bay. 

326 


SELECTIONS  327 

On  many  a  scattered  field  they  lie,  from  lonely  heights  call 

out  to  her, 

In  alien  waters  glad  to  die,  the  sea  their  shifting  sepulchre. 
We  smile  again  in  peace  to  greet  the  servient  savage,  hold 

our  head 
Above   the  clouds   of  dawn — our  feet   trampling   upon   our 

brothers,  dead! 

My  country,  hark!  On  every  hand  thou  seest  thy  work  and 
find'st  it  good — 

No,  Goddess,  no:  each  inch  of  land  bought  with  a  fallen  sol 
dier's  blood! 

The  lover,  father,  brother,  son,  have  ransomed  thee  through 
all  the  years; 

Wan  boys  have  pa-id  thy  martyrdom,  thy  smile  is  bought  with 
women's  tears. 

Listen,  my  Mother,  'tis  the  mouth  thy  bursting  breasts  have 
ever  fed, 

Prom  East  and  West,  from  North  and  South:  "Give  back 
our  dead!  Give  back  our  dead!  " 

Nay,  peace!  They  would  not  bring  thee  pain,  howe'er  their 
wildest  woe  be  heard: 

And  when  thou  needest  lives  again,  their  hearts  are  ready — 
say  the  zvord. 

Gladly  we  heap  the  sacrifice,  but  though  we  serve  unmurmur 
ing  ly, 

Remember,  Freedom  is  our  price,  since  men  must  die  that 
men  be  free; 

That  is  thy  pledge,  by  peace  or  war,  to  those  who  sleep  upon 
the  ground 

Their  blood  had  bought  from  shore  to  shore,  until  the  last 
reveille  sound. 

REGINALD   WRIGHT  KAUFFMAN. 


THE    END 


